


Guitars and Scarred Hearts

by stophookingatmeswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stophookingatmeswan/pseuds/stophookingatmeswan
Summary: One afternoon, Emma Swan receives an envelope containing a front-row ticket to the sold-out Killian Jones Mutiny Tour show in Boston, just like he promised all those years ago after high school. A Captain Swan Rock Star AU.





	1. Chapter 1

“Miss Swan, this just came for you by courier. Since it’s hand-addressed I didn’t open it on the off-chance it isn’t business related.” 

Emma looked up from the file she’d been reviewing to see her new office manager standing in the doorway holding a manila envelope. She gestured for Ashley to come in and leaned across the desk as best she could to take the package while her feet were still propped up on it. Dressed to the nines today for a lunch “date” with a skip, he’d forced Emma to give chase and even though she was quite adept at sprinting in heels, she’d lost her footing stepping off the curb while slamming him bodily into a parked car. 

It wasn’t her first twisted ankle and it wouldn’t be the last. Swan Bonds, LLC had grown steadily over the years thanks to her calculated utilization of an earned degree in Criminal Justice with a minor in Business Administration, and while she had a handful of bounty hunters working for her, Emma still liked hitting the streets herself. Maybe not as literally or as hard as her tumble at lunch, but her skip was sitting in jail where he belonged, making the trade-off worth it. 

“Can I get you anything else? A fresh ice pack?” 

“Thanks, Ashley, but I think I’m good. Great first week. I’ll see you Monday at seven. If you could make sure the phone is switched to the answering service and remember to call me Emma, I’d appreciate it.” 

Smiling as Ashley waved goodbye, Emma mused for a moment on what great a find she’d been. Her two previous office managers had been dubbed The Ugly Stepsisters by the bounty hunters, not for their looks but for their heinous personalities. Emma hadn’t been impressed either and had made countless calls to the staffing agency, begging for anyone that would show a hint of work ethic. When Ashley had revamped the filing system that had been thoroughly mucked up by her predecessors and charmed a group of rough and tumble recovery agents all before lunchtime on the first day, Emma didn’t hesitate to snatch her out of the uncertainty of temp work, offering a permanent full-time job. 

Turning her attention to the envelope, Emma’s brows knit together. She’d recognize that handwriting anywhere. It was usually reserved for the card she received every year for her birthday attached to a bouquet of flowers that had grown in size and general ostentatiousness in recent years. Since she was still four months away from thirty _thankyouverymuch_ and the envelope wasn’t accompanied by a rose and lily mix four times the size of her head, Emma was intrigued and she tore the package open. 

Inside were two front row tickets to the sold out Killian Jones Mutiny Tour show on Saturday night and a handwritten note. 

 _Emma,_

_I’m making good on my promise to get everyone together when I sold out a stadium tour and came home to Boston. Hope you and Henry can make it._

_-KJ_   

* * *

 

“I’d like to propose –“ 

Everyone laughed as Killian was cut off by David yelling, “I accept!” 

“Then I hope you’re into polygamy, bro, because last I checked, Mary Margaret was already wearing your ring.” 

David feigned a gasp and loudly accused Killian of bro-zoning him while and _awwww_ went through the small group over the mention of jewelry. David put his arm around his girl and pulled her close, the glint of her new promise ring just visible in the light of the dwindling bonfire. 

“As I was saying, I’d like to propose a toast on our last night together before we make our way into the world seeking fame and fortune.” Killian raised his Solo cup. “To great friends and grand adventures. I’ll see you on the flip side, front row at our first sold out show at the arena.” He took a hearty drink of rum, crushing the cup in his fist when it was empty, and hopped down off the tree stump that served as both podium and outdoor furniture at the campsite, coming to a stop in front of Emma and tucking an errant lock of hair escaped from her ponytail behind her ear. 

“That’s better now, isn’t it, Swan?” Before she could stop him, he swiped her bottle of Boone’s Farm Fuzzy Navel and took a swig. 

Emma rolled her eyes because that’s what they did; he pushed her buttons and she entertained him with her exasperation. It had been that way from the start when they met four years before. The depth of their friendship surprised her sometimes, as did her staggeringly repressed want for something more. She’d seen the same look in his eyes more than once and sometimes it terrified her. 

Once when she’d spent the whole time walking home from a school dance wondering if she was the last one in their group to ever be kissed as boys and girls – and girls and girls – started to pair off. Killian had leaned in and pressed his lips to hers before she could go inside. He’d tasted like hope and peppermint, and she’d panicked when he stepped closer and began to put his arms around her, ducking out of his reach and thanking him for walking her home before slamming the door in his face. 

Then there was the time she’d been hugging her first boyfriend at a group outing to the movies. Emma caught a glimpse of Killian over Graham’s shoulder, standing off to the side. Fist and jaw were in a competition to see which could clench more as he frowned in their direction with Killian only moving when he realized Emma was looking right at him. 

By the time she turned sixteen, Emma was newly single and experiencing the first bout of heartbreak she hadn’t brought upon herself. Killian found her teary-eyed and freezing on the back patio at her party, and draped his jacket over her shoulders and the locket he’d bought her around her neck. She let him hold her, tried to kiss him and was mortified when he leaned back, telling her she’d just broken up with someone and didn’t need a rebound. 

Invoking a personal three-strikes rule, Emma threw herself into their friendship and by the time graduation rolled around Killian Jones was much a part of her daily routine as hot chocolate from Granny’s diner and air. 

Stealing her booze back, Emma hip checked him and moved closer to the fire, looking around at all of the faces. 

David and Mary Margaret were choosing to stagger their educations. She would be starting early childhood education while he worked at the Humane Society to pay the bills with plans to switch when she got her first teaching job. They’d moved into an old loft just that morning, all giddy and in love with the idea of getting a jumpstart on their life together. 

Robin and Will were joking around with Killian, trying to shove each other off the driftwood log on which they sat, and all three were leaving in the morning. The cargo van they’d purchased jointly after working three summers at the shipyards was packed with all of their speakers, instruments and gear, and ready for a road trip the next day to their first real gig as a band. Emma hadn’t even bothered to tease Killian about the paltry fifty-dollar payday that would be split three ways; he’d been too excited about taking the first concrete step toward his dreams of rock stardom.  

* * *

  

In the morning Emma stood in the sunshine, hands tucked into the back pocket of her jeans watching Killian pour an extra quarter of oil into her car. She was only driving a few hours away across the state line to New York but he was fretting at whether or not her old Bug would make it. Toeing his ass with her boot, Emma told him to hurry up so she could get on the road and he turned, wielding the oil dipstick like a sword. 

“Give a man a few minutes to make sure you won’t overheat before you even get out of the state, Swan.” Killian squinted at the end of the stick and, satisfied with what he saw, stuck it back into its slot and closed the trunk. “There, are you happy?” 

“Aw, don’t be upset, Jones. We both know you’re the only dipstick I need in my life.” 

He pouted comically and she slung an arm around his neck, pulling him with her up onto the curb and wheezing out a breath when he caught her up in a bear hug. Emma buried her face in his neck, fighting the sting of tears in her eyes. They swayed for a moment, Killian’s hands tangled in her hair and as she drew back, he ducked his head and kissed her. 

It was longer than the one years ago on her porch, and certainly less chaste. Emma let herself melt into him and this fleeting, singular moment of _them_ before pulling away and bustling around to the driver’s side of the car. Their eyes met before she got in. 

“Go get that fame, fortune and all those groupies, tiger.” 

Killian laughed and shook his head. 

“Don’t be silly, Swan. We both know you’re the only groupie I need in my life.” 

She let herself sneak a peek of him in the rearview mirror as she pulled away, watching step into the street, an anguished look on his face with one hand held over his heart, and wondered if she’d ever find another person quite like him.

* * *

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Emma jolted forward, catching the heavy gallon of milk just before Henry drowned both his Cheerios and the entire kitchen table with its contents. He was eight and fiercely independent, a trait she admired when it didn’t mean her first blissful Saturday morning cup of coffee was going to go cold as she mopped milk off the floor. 

“Nah, Violet and I have been planning this video game marathon for weeks.” He surveyed the cereal to milk ratio in his bowl and shoveled in a bite, talking around it. “Thanks, Mom.” 

“Ugh, who taught you those manners, kid?” Under her eagle eye, he sat up a little straighter and made sure he swallowed before talking again. 

“Sorry. Anyway, you said I could go to Violet's. And stay until midnight. And that August was going to pick me up and bring me back home so you could go see your _boyfriend_.” 

What the actual hell? Her own kid was going to tease her now? Emma crumpled up her napkin and tossed it at Henry, deciding wiping up a few errant muffin crumbs was worth it. He tossed it back, dissolving into a fit of giggles when it landed in her coffee mug. 

“Dammit, Henry!” She couldn’t help but laugh herself as she picked the soggy napkin out of the cup and wrung it out. “He is not my boyfriend.” 

“Fine. He’s a boy. Who. Is. A. Friend.” Henry rolled his eyes and air quoted every word, tossing his incessantly repeated line about the nature of his relationship with Violet out there with a little tweak. 

Henry finished his cereal while she was lost in thought and barely had to beg for an hour of cartoons. Emma needed a little time and space to herself to rifle through her closet to find an outfit worthy of a rock concert. She guessed she and Killian were still friends even though they hadn't seen each other in years. Not as close as they once were because Killian was the freaking A-list rock star he’d always dreamed of becoming. But they’d stayed in touch over the years as often as their vastly different circumstances would allow. 

Flowers came every year on her birthday, save for one. The first time was her freshman year in college; a small bunch of modest gerbera daisies delivered to the coffee shop where she worked. As the years passed and Killian’s career had taken off, the deliveries had become larger and more elaborate. The single time the big day came and went without one of his gestures, Emma wondered if he'd become so famous that remembering to send flowers to a friend from high school was off his radar. That thought dried up quickly the following year when a bouquet of lilies and red roses showed up that was four times bigger than her head.

Still in school, Emma went back to Boston every summer to work for a bail bonds office. At the age of twenty, she fell hard and completely against her better judgment for one of their clients who swore he’d been wrongly accused of boosting some high-end watches. By the time Emma had realized he was playing her, he was sentenced to five years and she found out she was pregnant. Emma came home to a small rented apartment from the hospital with baby Henry and the morning after her first night alone as a single mom, wrestled an eight-foot tall teddy bear into her matchbook-sized living room, cursing Killian’s inability to send a onesie or box of diapers like a normal fucking human being. 

They sent each other texts when something notable happened, most recently a few months ago when Killian and his band had won two Grammys in one night. Emma had assumed her congratulatory message would get lost in a sea of well wishes but he’d come back almost immediately with a photo: the award in one hand and giving a thumbs up with the other. Killian’s cheesy grin a direct contrast to his leather accented tuxedo jacket, the copious amounts of visible chest hair via a dress shirt with two extra buttons undone, guyliner and hair spiked with purple woven through. 

Absorbed with her own life first in school then as a business owner, bail bondsperson and mother with precious little free time to do anything else, Emma didn’t pay much attention to Killian’s public life. As much as she was proud of his success, his celebrity was a flurry of bad boy antics with equally bad press, all spawned by a very acrimonious and very public breakup of the affair he’d been having with his manager’s wife. Social media fights with critics, a drunken bar brawl, two trashed hotel rooms, loud parties every weekend resulting in pissed off neighbors, and a countless parade of women, some of whom seemingly tried to squeeze all of the attention they could out of being one of the many Killian Jones one-night stands if their Instagram "modeling" careers were any indication.

It was easier for Emma to focus on the version of him she knew; the one who still signed the card that came with her birthday flowers _Yours, Killian_ even if that had never quite been the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

To anyone with half a brain, at least one eye and some deductive reasoning skills, Killian Jones led the life of a king, as was befitting of someone at the top of his particular profession. No request went unanswered, no whim ignored. Anyone who stood in his way either professionally or personally was unceremoniously and metaphorically tossed overboard. The result was a life that was larger than life, one that looked enviable from the outside and was plenty damn enviable from the inside, too, if the sheer number of hangers on and groupies who enjoyed Killian’s spirit of generosity when it came to parties and having a good time. 

The downside was that he’d spent so much time cultivating a bubble of yes that even when he should be saying no, there wasn’t a soul around to tell him to fucking do it.

Like right now.

Killian had one hand wrapped around the neck of a crazy expensive bottle of rum and the other guiding the movements of the brunette whose lips were currently wrapped around his cock. In the back of his mind, he knew he was leaning heavily on his two biggest coping mechanisms – alcohol and women – to block out the battering waves of nerves that wouldn’t let up over the idea of seeing Emma Swan again was a terrible idea. And that was without taking into consideration the fact that he had to perform in less than half an hour, and Molly – _Mandy? Mindy?_ – lacked any degree of skill in the blowjob department, and he wasn’t anywhere near finishing.

Any other time when he wasn’t off his game, Killian would have pushed her away and unabashedly jacked off over her face, rudely bumping his knuckles against her chin as he stroked and requesting she open her mouth at the last second so he could paint her tongue with his release. But he needed something more to keep the impending reunion off of his mind, so he made a few quick changes in his plans. 

Tonight’s lucky lady was quickly bent over the arm of the couch and ordered to drop her panties while Killian rolled on a condom and took two huge pulls of rum. Giggling that she wasn’t wearing any _because none of them fucking ever wore any_ , he shut her up with a hard thrust. Fucking her roughly, he twisted her hair in his hands, chocolate strands getting caught on his rings, trying to empty his mind of everything except getting off so he could go do his goddamned job while a pair of hauntingly familiar green eyes watched him from the shadows. 

* * *

Not even a stint as a yard monitor at the school when Henry was in Kindergarten prepared Emma for the volume of the crowd. Women yelled, screamed, catcalled and, if they could get close enough, grabbed onto Killian as he performed. Three bras, a box of Magnum condoms, half a dozen thongs and endless paper airplanes folded on paper printed with salacious selfies and marked with phone numbers landed on the stage. 

Part of Emma was appalled. Part of her totally got it. Because Killian was hot. 

Like, mind numbingly, breathtakingly, lady boner-popping HOT, and that was before he even moved a muscle. 

The concert started with a light show worthy of a good pair of sunglasses and a trigger warning for the epileptic. The screams started when a platform rose from beneath the stage, a still figure with its back turned to the audience illuminated with each burst of pyrotechnics. 

He wore tight leather pants that had Emma tossing up a prayer of thanks to both heaven and his tailor, and a waistcoat cinched around a slim waist that highlighted the broadness of his upper back. Killian had always been just short of gangly in high school, and seeing him muscled and strong through the arms and shoulders made her belly flutter. 

His rock star persona had been well documented in photographs over the years, so the heavy jewelry, eyeliner and purple-tipped hair were not a surprise when he turned around. What she was ill prepared for was the raw sex that surrounded him like an aura when he started to play, tongue just visible between his teeth, hips thrust forward and the lower bout of a custom guitar pressed in right above the sizeable bulge in his leathers. Nimble fingers started to play and Emma watched them with rapt attention, wondering what other skills he could perform. Between that and the scruff that made her think about beard burn on her inner thighs, the flutters in her belly turned into a full-blown pull Emma tried to convince herself had everything to do with a dry spell that was fourteen months long and counting. 

And that was before throwing his unbelievable talent into the mix. He played every instrument at some point, looking just at home behind a drum set as he did holding a microphone or riffing on one of his many guitars. His voice was clear and soulful and, toward the end of the set when things were winding down, a little hoarse but it just added to the total package. 

Standing to the side in a roped off area with Mary Margaret, David, Will and Robin, she cheered until she lost her voice, and when the lights went out and Killian and the band left the stage, she turned to commiserate with her oldest friends. They all agreed the show had been spectacular with Will and Robin swearing they knew from the beginning that Killian had what it took to go all the way, repeating the story that they’d bowed out of the band the three of them had formed in high school a few years into life on the road so they wouldn’t hold him back. 

The crowd started to murmur when a single spotlight came back on illuminating a simple wooden stool, microphone stand and single guitar. The buzz turned into more screaming as Killian walked back onto the stage, sat down and picked up the guitar, idly picking out a tune 

“How you doing tonight, Boston?” Deafening cheers. “As usual, tonight’s encore has been selected by you, the fans, in an online poll. If my special guest wouldn’t mind bringing out the envelope, we can get down to business.” 

The “special guest” was a knockout brunette whose tits arrived on stage well before the rest of her. 

“I heard it’s always a woman with dark hair,” Mary Margaret stage whispered, her eyes popped wide at the sight of the woman pretending to drop the envelope on the ground and gyrating her stellar ass in Killian’s lap as she bent over to retrieve it. 

“Mmhmm.” David’s eyes were also glued to the sight before them, although he was much more interested in the generous amount of cleavage to which the audience was being treated. “Wonder when he stopped liking blondes – hey!” He winced as Mary Margaret elbowed him in the ribs, seemingly put off by her husband’s open ogling. 

The crowd catcalled and whistled as the woman left the stage, mile-long legs made to look all the better by the same kind of heels Emma had been wearing when she sprained her ankle earlier in the week, waving and blowing kisses over her shoulder, the gesture wasted since Killian was already occupied tuning his guitar. 

On the stage alone again, he ripped open the envelope to see what pop song he was going to perform. It had started as a joke; some wiseass in the crowd in the early years asking if he took requests with the subsequent performance of Justin Bieber’s “Baby” going viral in a shaky video on YouTube. After that, doing a cover became a fixture at the end of his shows and Emma had to admit some of them were just as good, if not better, than the original. Killian had unknowingly kept her ass going on the treadmill more than once with his hardcore version of “Ex’s and Oh’s” by Elle King. 

“Oh, wow. This one is by a landslide. Sixty-nine percent –“ he let his fingers dance over his crotch surreptitiously as the hoots and jeers ran their course, an eyebrow raised and a wicked glint in his eye – “voted this song the winner.” 

The stage lit up to show the rest of the band and mesmerized, Emma swayed along as a member of the crew swept in to take the stool away and the music started to play. It was one of her favorites: Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph.” They performed it with a hard rock edge, Killian easily strumming along on his guitar and playing to the crowd, still all sass and sex until he got to one part.

His eyes met hers as she was fiddling with the locket she always wore; the one he’d given her on her birthday. It had been empty when he’d given it to her with the instruction to fill it with whatever made her heart happy and it stayed the way for years until Henry came along. 

_You can fit me_

_Inside the necklace you got when you were sixteen_

_Next to your heartbeat where I should be_

_Keep it deep within your soul_

Killian seemed caught in a trance, unable to look away until a pyro burst had him shaking his head imperceptibly, breaking their eye contact and he moved to the other side of the stage. 

Emma caught Mary Margaret gesturing at David in her peripheral vision, nodding first at her friend and then at Killian. They shared a private whisper and when Mary Margaret noticed her looking, she smiled innocently at Emma. 

 _“What?”_ she mouthed but David had already swung his wife into a dip to kiss her. Normally an advanced level of PDA by the couple would make Emma wince - they were just so damn parental it was like watching your mom and dad make out – but the alternative was to watch Killian work his pelvic sorcery on a group of women who were definitely trying to grab his junk just as the song ended, rocketing the arena into darkness.

* * *

 With old friendships came backstage passes and Emma found herself fidgeting as they walked a long, utilitarian hallway. A line of dark-haired women, dressed in as little as possible to impress, were lined up and she suddenly felt like an overdressed plain Jane in her usual jeans. Her wardrobe contained a few pieces that would have fit in with this crowd but were relegated to the back and only taken out when necessary to dazzle her bail jumpers. Everything she tried on while Henry was watching SpongeBob looked like fifty shades of trying too hard, so she went the route of old faithful. At least the leather jacket and sheer blouse paid homage to the occasion. 

Trailing behind Will and Robin, she was surprised when they bypassed the dressing rooms altogether and were shown out the back door of the venue. The stagehand ushered them toward a bus and Emma stopped just short of the first step for a moment to collect her thoughts, suddenly hit with a shockwave of nervousness. 

 _It’s just Killian._

_He’s one of your oldest friends._

_The man who’d casually asked if you needed help paying for Henry’s daycare in the early startup years of Swan Bonds._

_Just play it cool. Be yourself. And for the love of fuck’s sake, do NOT stare at his crotch._

Taking a huge, huffing breath, Emma barreled up the steps and hit a solid mass at the top, bouncing off and almost losing her footing to tumble ass over teakettle back down to the ground. Strong arms slipped around her waist at the last second and her back bowed as her mystery rescuer took a step back, letting her feet find solid ground one more. 

“Easy there, Swan.” 

 _Oh, god. Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod._

If she hadn’t been so stunned, Emma would have started laughing at the ridiculousness of her final thought before climbing onto the bus. She didn’t have to worry about looking at Killian’s crotch at all. Not when they were pressed navel to knee in the small space next to the driver’s seat and it was pressed against her stomach. Still, a small giggle escaped and Emma she wondered briefly if it was possible for a person to run herself over with a bus. She was saved by Killian mistaking the sound for a squeak signifying he was holding onto her too hard and he stepped back, a finger coming up to scratch behind his ear. 

Emma wanted to say something perfect and profound and, to her complete and utter non-surprise, nothing came. They just stood awkwardly looking at each other for a moment before Will’s whooping cheer broke the silence and Killian cocked his head for her to follow and went to check on their friend. 

“Jesus, Jones. This shit costs, what? $300 a shot?” Will had already splashed three fingers of whatever the hell it was into a crystal tumblr and groaned lewdly in pleasure as he took a sip. “I’m telling you, Hood, we should have stuck with this asshole. Coulda been living the high life.

Laughing with the group, Emma almost missed the sobered look on Robin’s face. She chalked it up to a different brand of wishful thinking that they hadn’t pulled the plug on stardom all those years ago when Mary Margaret ushered her to a counter laid out with top-shelf booze and what looked like catered appetizers. 

“Will wasn’t joking, this is some really nice stuff. That bottle of vodka is in an actual birdcage and I’ve never seen a bottle of Dom Perignon in person.” Emma had just stuffed spinach pastry puff in her mouth when Mary Margaret grabbed her arm and squealed. “Emma, look!” 

Tucked in the mix was a bottle of Boone’s Fuzzy Navel and she didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. A quick survey had Emma coming to the conclusion that nobody else’s high school fave was on hand and for a moment, her mind was back to the same race it had been in before she boarded the bus. Unwilling to read too much into it, she sealed herself against the questions bubbling up to the surface of her consciousness and grabbed the bottle, emptying half of it into her glass.

Shivers ran down her spine when Killian’s voice came from right next to her ear. 

“Slow down there, Swan. That set me back four dollars.” He chuckled when she startled and overcorrected to keep from spilling, and winked at her as he reached past her to load up a plate. 

Hoping to find some liquid conversation at the bottom of her glass, Emma chugged the sweet drink but by the time she turned around, Killian had already moved away and was sitting next to David on a built-in leather couch. 

* * *

A few hours passed before the size and frequency of Mary Margaret’s yawns started to embarrass her, and she and David bade everyone a good night. Robin and Will had dashed off the bus to see if any of the groupie action would tilt in their favor, leaving Emma alone with Killian. 

“I’m glad you could all make it tonight.” Killian’s eyes were lit up, made all the more blue by the black kohl lining them. He was a lethal combination of beautiful and sinful, and Emma could see why women threw themselves at him. He’d always been nice to look at but the scruff suited him, as did the leather pants that showed off his – _for Christ’s sake, don’t look!_  

“You alright there, Swan?” 

Emma dragged her eyes up to see him looking directly at her, tongue pressed into a cheek, and she felt her face go hot that he’d caught her ogling. But he looked so far from irritated she just nodded and smiled, praying the blush wasn’t spreading down her neck and onto her chest in a clear sign of both DEFCON 1 embarrassment and how close to drunk she was. 

“I’m just fine. Great, actually. Thanks for inviting me.” 

 _Good job, Emma. You had all night to come up with some stellar conversation and that’s what you lead with?_  

She scooted over as much as she could when he settled onto the loveseat next to her but for all of the tour bus’s grandeur, space was limited and his thigh still ran the entire length of hers.

“The boy didn’t want to come? It would have been nice to finally meet him.” Killian sounded disappointed and Emma turned to look at him in profile. _Jesus Christ, that face should be illegal._  

“He’s eight and the prospect of a late night playing video games with his friend trumped meeting a rock star.” She bumped his shoulder when his finger came up to scratch behind his ear again, a classic Killian Jones tic that usually meant he was feeling uncomfortable. “And I know it’s been a while since you were in the third grade, but your show isn’t exactly rated E for everyone.” 

Bumping her shoulder back he smiled down into his lap, reaching a fingernail to run along the seam of his pants, knuckle brushing the outside of her leg. 

“I like my music loud and my crowds big.” Killian laughed loud and long when she muttered something about liking big tits, too. “I love what I do. What?” Killian seemed surprised when her eyebrows shot up and she gave him a sideways glance at his flourishing gesture toward the direction of the dressing rooms. 

“I bet. I literally saw women drop their panties when you performed tonight. And throw them at you.” 

The single, fiddling finger turned into three tapping out a guitar chord on his thigh, another tic from the old days. 

“Yeah, well, that level of desperation isn’t a good look on anyone.” He hummed a melody under his breath that Emma recognized as “Tiny Dancer” and stopped suddenly, fluttering a hand toward her. “This, on the other hand. Quite a good look.” 

Emma glanced down at the outfit she hadn’t thought would hold a candle when walking backstage and back up at him with a stank-ass look. 

“Seriously? They’re just jeans.” 

“Ah, but it’s your ass – ow! Assets, Swan. Your _assets_ that make it work.” Killian grinned at her from his spot on the floor where she’d shoved him, and it was so thoroughly shit-eating she knew he was trying to goad her. “Jesus, you’re strong.” 

“Yeah, well, I manhandle a lot of assholes in my job.” It took Emma a moment to realize what she just said was a complete double entendre and that Killian was literally rolling on the floor of the bus laughing his own assets off. “Grammy winning international superstar Killian Jones, ladies and gentlemen,” she muttered, stretching a leg over her seat to nudge him with the toe of her boot, and it only made him laugh harder. 

When he sat up, his guyliner was somewhere between artfully smudged and “sorority pledge walk of shame” and he excused himself to go clean up. Emma went to pour herself another stiff drink, the Boone’s long empty, and was standing in front of the snacks, indelicately wolfing down a handful of chips directly out of her palm when he came back. 

“I see you still eat like a baby rhino.” She jumped, sending a shower of crumbs back into the bowl and the entirety of her freshly poured rum and Coke – over ice _of fucking course_ \- down the front of her shirt. 

“Shit!” Holding the soaked fabric away from her skin and doing some sort of weird-ass jig to work the ice cubes out the bottom of her shirt, she took the stack of napkins Killian offered and did her best to blot the liquid. “Dammit, that’s cold. Thanks.” She looked up when he shoved a napkin into her hand and stopped short. 

He’d changed his clothes from leather to faded denim and flannel. The eyeliner was gone, his face scrubbed clean. His hair was wet, the product used to make it look like he’d just crawled out of bed after an athletic session driving some lucky lady around a mattress rinsed away. He looked softer, almost boyish, and so much like he did when they were eighteen it made her heart skip a beat. 

“I’m sorry, I made a mess of things. I should get going. There’s no cleaning this up.” Emma looked down at her shirt and was mortified to see it was completely see-through now and that the chill of the drink had made her nipples stand at attention. Killian had the good sense to appear abashed when she caught him looking but dragged his gaze first to the pendant resting on her sternum, then up to her face, and was gentlemanly enough to keep his mouth shut, at least when it came to words. The tongue that flicked out and unconsciously ran over his lip told a different story. 

She thought about it. Leaning in. Following the path of his tongue with hers. It was impossible to go anywhere on the planet without hearing about Killian Jones and his legendary reputation as a ladies’ man. There was no doubt in her mind she could make a move on him, slide her tongue into his mouth and her hand down his pants to end her dry spell and their torturous history of n _ot quite_ and _almost_. And it was so tempting. But Emma’s dignity reared its (not altogether unwelcome) head and she chickened out, clearing her throat as she took a step back. 

“I should get going,” she repeated, picking up another napkin and absently blotting her blouse just to keep her hands busy and far away from Killian Fucking Jones and his nether regions. 

“At least get out of that shirt before you go.” Killian’s eyes went wide at what sounded like a pass and he turned bright red. “I mean – I have a shirt you can borrow. Come on.” He moved through the main lounging area of the bus toward the bunks and opened a small built in closet, handing her another flannel. “This one’s my favorite, so you’ll have to give it back.” 

Ushered into the tiny bathroom, Emma changed quickly, buttoning Killian’s too-large shirt and rolling up the sleeves as he spoke through the door.

“I’m going to be in town for a while now that the tour is over. Perhaps we could have dinner. With the boy,” he said in a rush. “I would like to meet him.” He looked earnest when she opened the door, jacket and soiled shirt draped over her arm. “Let me take care of that for you.” Killian plucked her blouse up and turned bodily to block her when she moved to grab it back. 

“Jones, come on.” 

He danced backwards away from her.

“I know how you are about accepting help, but it’s just an offer of dry cleaning, Emma. Although the wash-and-wear look is quite fetching on you.” 

The lecherous look he’d had after getting an eyeful of lace and nip was back, and she rolled her eyes and stepped on his foot to trip him up, sashaying past him to make quick work of heading toward the door as he broke into a short jog to keep up. 

“Next weekend. Saturday.” Killian caught her arm. “Something early so Henry isn’t spending another Saturday night up too late.” 

Up until that point, she was going to say no. Emma was comfortable with her life; it may seem small to some with just work and her kid but it was blissfully simple. Inviting Hurricane Killian into it past text messages and birthday flowers promised an unknown chaos, but she couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her like that AND put Henry before himself. 

“Fine. Dinner. Your place.” She didn’t think she was quite ready to have Killian in her home and fiddled with the cuff of her newly acquired flannel to avoid looking at him. 

“Saturday at three? The place I’m renting is on the water and we could go sailing.” His tone was bordering on embarrassed and Emma looked up in time to see him nervous tic-ing his way through the offer. “It’s a little ways from here, though. I could – I could send a car. So you don’t have to make the drive.” 

 _A car? Like a limo? Or one of those huge black SUVs with the tinted windows? Hell, no._  

“That’s okay, I’ll drive myself. My car has a metric fuckton of miles on it anyway. What’s a few more?” 

She laughed when he put two and two together, eyes bugging out. 

“You do NOT still have that piece of shit Volkswagen, Emma. Do you?” He sounded horrified and comically accusatory. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The rum and nerves made the words come out flirtier than she intended and Emma watched as Killian swallowed hard at her tone. 

“Perhaps I would.” 

That damn panty-dropping voice was going to be the death of her. 

Needing some fresh air, Emma started descending down the steps and jumped off the bottom step of the bus onto solid ground, hoping he wouldn’t follow if she wrapped things up. “Text me the address. And thanks for tonight.” 

No such luck on the not following thing. Killian caught her arm before she could walk away, stopping her from leaving him just yet.

“I’m really happy you came tonight.” 

No innuendo or snark. Just truth. Emma didn’t know what to do with that, so she did what she does best and did nothing. Quickly kissing his cheek, she turned and walked away, cursing as she tripped over her feet when a security guard’s Maglite blinded her on her way back to the arena.


	3. Chapter 3

Seven thousand fucking square feet and not so much as a closet in which to hide. 

And that figure was without adding the guesthouse that was bigger than the average American family’s home, the tent in the front yard, and the conservation grounds surrounding the place he was renting. 

The band always closed tours on Saturday but waited until Sunday to throw a lavish party, the theory born early on that only the most dedicated and down to fuck would attend an all-night rager that ran well into the early hours of Monday. The normal post-tour party shenanigans were in full swing with hundreds of industry insiders, fellow performers and the requisite coattail riders, along with an endless stream of gorgeous women all jockeying to wind up in his bed occupying every inch of space, inside and out. 

For the first time since he hit superstardom, Killian wasn’t feeling it. It would take two hands to count the number of times he overheard someone bitching about the lack of a swimming pool or remarking rather loudly that the house wasn’t up to Killian’s usual standards.

 _Assholes._ A fourteen million dollar property with a stunning view of the sea and somehow it wasn’t good enough? 

A half-empty bottle of British Royal Navy Imperial rum held down by his side was the only concession to his usual revelry as he ghosted from room to room with the air of a grumpy old man who wanted nothing more than to yell at the damn neighborhood kids to get off his lawn. And he wasn’t even responsible for the majority of the depleted alcohol. In an attempt to keep up appearances in between chats with producers looking for a chance to collaborate, he took countless selfies with Stepford groupies more than happy to take a swig from a $3,000 bottle of rum if it meant getting close enough to Killian Jones to simulate fellatio on the rim in an effort to entice. 

The only swapping of actual of spit was with a girl who begged him to help her get revenge on a cheating boyfriend. Playing to the small crowd gathered around, Killian slipped his tongue into her mouth and placed her hand on his crotch while everyone hooted and hollered, the woman’s carbon copy best friend recording the whole thing, no doubt with every intention of splashing it all over social media. 

He managed to dodge the twosome’s invitation to go someplace more private and make it a threesome by promising to come find them later once he’d made a few more rounds, and suggested they stop by the Glitter Room. Their eyes lit up at the mention of cocaine and Killian scoffed as he ducked down a hallway, sucking his teeth in distaste. They were all so fucking predictable. 

A bodyguard stood by the door of the master bedroom and Killian playfully socked him on the shoulder, inquiring after the man’s wife and kids. They chatted for a moment before Killian promised Anton a full bottle of the Imperial rum if he ensured no one so much as knocked on his door for the rest of the night and closed it behind him. 

It wasn’t quiet. The pounding music and loud thrum of voices still managed to make its way up to his sanctuary on the top floor. The main house was odd and, if he shed his newfound distain for his guests’ opinions on the place for a moment, not his usual taste. He’d forgone a condo in a luxury high-rise or sleek bachelor pad with a hot tub and pool in favor of this weird-ass house. It was almost ugly from the outside and he was a second away from firing the realtor until he’d come up here. 

The porthole style windows in the bedroom and bathroom provided an unfettered view of the water he found soothing. Hell, maybe he was turning into an old man. The armchair in the corner wasn’t exactly his style but it looked comfortable as hell and Killian sank onto it, phone in one hand as the other lifted the bottle to his lips. 

The two girls he’d just escaped had already tagged him in their video on Instagram and even in his funk he chortled, nearly spitting rum at the hashtag “omgitfelthuge.” Musing for a moment on the possibilities a night with them would hold, he stopped short when he saw the top photograph in his feed when he switched from his public account to a secret personal one. 

Emma rarely used her Instagram account and when she did, it was to like pics of coffee, wine and puppies, and commiserate in the comment section of frazzled mom memes. Her own uploads were few and far between, and usually leaned toward the same themes as her likes, but tonight was a welcome change. 

Her face was scrubbed free of makeup, hair piled on her head in a spectacularly messy topknot. Arms encased in an oversized sweater were close to the forefront, one wrapped around a grinning Henry and the other stretched out to take the picture. The boy was holding up an elaborate LEGO pirate ship from the set Killian had couriered over that morning. Emma looked tired and a little frazzled, perhaps from spending the day sorting through 800 bricks and pieces but the smile on her face was genuine. The caption was simple: _Henry says thank you_ and Killian exited Instagram and opened his text app, typing a quick message back that read _Killian says you’re welcome_. Almost immediately came the reply of a pink-cheeked happy emoji. 

He sat up just enough to put the rum bottle out of reach on the console table between the windows and settled back again, looking out into the darkness and wondering if the water would be even more peaceful when he was out on it with a boy and his mother the following weekend. 

**** 

By ten o’clock in the morning, Emma was already having the Mondayest of Mondays. She’d overslept, Henry had been late to class and she’d gotten a flat tire hopping the curb on the way back to the school to deliver his forgotten lunch. By four-thirty, the day had only gone from bad to worse with work piling on in the form of her biggest bond not only skipping town but hopping a flight to the Maldives for a little vacation in a country that also happened to have no extradition treaty with the U.S. 

Having friends in low places meant her car was back in working order before mid-afternoon and she tossed a cache of staples laced with junk food into a basket at the grocery store on her way home. Just thinking about the fact that she’d bailed out one of the sleaziest businessmen in Boston just to have him jump the bond pissed Emma the fuck off, and put three different flavors of Pop Tarts next to a quart of Häagen-Dazs on the check out conveyer and a scowl on her face. 

If she was in less of a mood she might have missed the loud whispers behind her, but the course of the day had brought her straight to the corner of Not Suffering Fools Boulevard and Fuck All the Way Off Street. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Emma snapped at the girls standing in line behind her right as she realized one of them was actually trying to snap a photo of her. Snatching the phone from the girl’s hand, she held it behind her back as their indignant cries reached deafening levels. “You’d better have a good reason for trying to sneak a picture of a total stranger. I’m in law enforcement and we don’t take things like this lightly.” 

Yeah, it was mostly a lie but they didn’t know that. 

“You, like, know Killian Jones.” The words came out rushed and with no small amount of the same fan girl giddiness Emma had witnessed at the concert two nights ago. 

“Like, how is it any of your business?” She knew mimicking the girl was rude as hell but she couldn’t bring herself to care, especially when the her friend jumped into the mix. 

“So that _isn’t_ you?” 

Emma’s eyes followed the trajectory of where the girl was pointing and burst out with a string of expletives that earned her a dirty look from the cashier and caused a weary looking mother being hounded for candy by a kid close to Henry’s age to clap her hands over the boy’s ears. 

Yep. There she was. Right on the cover of an entertainment tabloid with huge bold copy asking “Who Is The Mystery Woman Kissing Killian Jones?” below it. 

Shoving the girl’s phone back in her hand, Emma grabbed the stack of magazines and tossed a handful of cash on the conveyer. Leaving her groceries behind, she ran to the sanctity of her car and flipped through the tabloid until she found what she was looking for. 

It didn’t surprise Emma that the girls had literally picked her out from a line of total strangers. Hell, she was wearing almost the same damn clothes, save for Killian’s flannel. The photos, grainy as they were, told a visual story. The arm grab, the kiss that from the angle of the picture looked nowhere near platonic, and that idiot friend of hers blatantly checking out her ass as she walked away from the tour bus. They even had a clearer pic of her face from much closer range and Emma realized two days and forty dollars spent on shitty gossip rags late that what she thought had been the security guard’s Maglite beam had actually been a camera flash. 

“FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

Hoping against hope that it was just in print and would be off the shelves in a week, Emma pulled out her phone and quickly searched for the tabloid’s website.

Great. Just… _great_. Her face was front and center at the top of the page and more Photoshopped than a freaking Kardashian. Even with the massive amount of airbrushing there was no mistaking it was her, and Emma slumped down in her seat thanks to a sudden bout of paranoia and scrolled down to the comments section, throwing a few more swear words out into the universe. 

A cursory scroll treated her eyeballs to tasteful descriptions thrown her way such as “skank,” “flavor of the day” and “gold digger” along with some in-depth detecting skills that both impressed the bondsperson and horrified the woman who had never so much as stuck a toe into the wonderful world of giving a crap about celebrities. Apparently Killian’s favorite shirt was a well-documented accessory and the fact that she was wearing it meant she was banging him. 

Tossing the phone aside after one grammatically challenged commenter’s assessment that “she don’t even look like she suck good dick” Emma let out a frustrated screech and started the car, making a decision to just order a pizza instead of attempting another store to get a few groceries. Henry wouldn’t mind and she just wanted to get the hell home. 

**** 

_What the fuck, Jones?_

It wasn’t the first time Killian had heard that question from Emma; in fact, it would probably go down in history as her most frequently used conversation starter. What was new was the hour. 

 _It’s two-thirty in the morning, Swan._ He typed back quickly, shoving a few extra pillows behind his back and pushing a button on the universal remote to turn on a dim light across the room. 

 _Whatever. Shove the groupie off your dick and call me. Now._  

The vulgarity of the message wasn’t her texting style either and he was suddenly worried, quickly placing the call. 

“Emma, what’s wrong?” 

Killian doubted she even could hear him over her immediate shouting. There was a lot of loud words about a tabloid, photos by the tour bus and something about Emma’s dick sucking skills, but it was a jumbled mess and he finally had to yell over her to get her attention. 

“SWAN! Jesus fucking Christ, let a man get a word in edgewise before you tear him a new one. Now again. And slower. And with less volume.” 

“You. Me. Photographs. Tabloid. Fan girls freaking out. Write mean things online. Pee circle around Killian Jones.” She ended with a few caveman grunts and it took a second for it to hit him. 

“Wait, you’re saying a tabloid has photographs of us?” Killian sat up quickly, the sheets pooling low around his hips. “And fans are being…their dickish selves.” He’d learned long ago to stay the hell away from comments on social media, and his team handled promotion, PR and damage control when he fucked up. If he kept up with every tabloid rumor, blog post and magazine article he wouldn’t have time to do anything else, and after ten years in varying degrees of spotlight, he was used to having the attention floating out in the universe and subsequently ignoring it. 

Emma, on the other hand, was not, and he hopped out of bed and started to pace as she ranted. 

“Killian, I had two girls try to take my picture at a grocery store because they recognized me from a magazine cover three feet away. My answering service has informed me that they are just forwarding calls to voicemail because someone found out where I work and pissed off women have been calling nonstop to tell me to stay away from you. Are you even listening to me, Jones?” 

He had put her on speaker to be able to simultaneously text the head of his camp and stopped short in front of one of the porthole windows. The moonlight coming off the water would soothe any other time but with Emma in his ear reaching a fevered pitch counteracted the usual effect. 

“I am, love. Just relaying some info by text to get this taken care of.” 

“You can do that?”

She sounded incredulous and more than a little out of breath. He could imagine Emma doing some pacing of her own and if he knew her at all, she’d most likely stewed for hours treading a path into her carpet before finally reaching out to him.

“Yes, well, they’re used to it by now.” Killian’s voice caught on the words and he cleared his throat. “This is nothing, Swan. A few posts in the right places along with a few phone calls and it’ll be a done deal. Hang on a second.”

He quickly read a text from his publicist outlining the game plan, sent an emoji thumbs up back, and turned to the window again as he took Emma off speaker and brought the phone to his ear. Someone else with a shred of modesty left might have balked at standing naked in front of a large window but the way Killian figured it, half the world had seen it all before anyway thanks to the paparazzi crashing more than one vacation with their long-range lenses and his longstanding habit of getting trashed at parties and allowing himself to be coaxed into skinny dipping by models. 

“Don’t worry, Swan. It’ll all die down once something else newsworthy pops up. And I’m – I apologize if this cast a pall.” The words felt foreign coming out of his mouth and Killian realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sincerely apologized to anyone. “I’ll make it up to you this weekend.” 

“Yeah, about that. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to come see you. It’s one thing for me to have my face out there but I have to think of Henry. ” 

His heart sank and Killian scrambled to find something that would make her change her mind. 

“You don’t have to come to the house. We can do something else. I’ll still rent a boat but figure out a more stealthy way to get you both out on the water. And if it’s small enough, I can captain it alone and it will just be the three of us.” His fist clenched against the wall next to the window and Killian let his forehead rest on the cool glass, feeling a small slice of hope when she didn’t turn him down right away. “Come on, Swan. Try something new. It’s called trust.” 

The teasing tone on otherwise heavy-handed words made Emma laugh as she agreed to an as-yet-to-be-determined Plan B and suddenly they were back to their usual snippy repartee. 

Killian flopped back down on the bed and lay on his back, one hand tucked behind his head and the other holding the phone by his ear, totally reminiscent of their late night talks back in high school. At one point Emma made a joke about his fans and it struck a chord he’d missed running with earlier. 

“What was that part about your dick sucking skills?” His tongue came out to rest between his teeth as Emma snorted on the other end of the line. 

“What about it? Maybe I should go defend my honor. Let ‘em know that eye contact, that thing I do with a twist of my wrist and having almost no gag reflex means I’ve never had a complaint.” 

 _Holy fuck._  

Killian’s cock thickened slightly, twitching against his thigh and he reached down unthinkingly, not sure if he wanted to ask her to keep going or beg her to stop. An image of blonde hair, green eyes and pink lips flashed in his mind but was rudely interrupted by Emma giggling in his ear. Realizing she was purposefully teasing him, he pulled his hand away from where he’d been absently toying with his length until he was half-hard, embarrassed and horrified that he was a few of his own twists of the wrist away from jerking it over one of his oldest friends. 

_You dumb, perpetually horny asshole always thinking with your dick._

Annoyed with himself, he feigned a yawn and they said their goodbyes, Killian promising to text her with the new info on where to meet. He hated she’d been caught up in one of the most ridiculous aspects of his celebrity right when they were getting reacquainted and angry for his libido rearing its ugly head at a completely improper time. Scowling, he wondered if he even deserved the normalcy Emma had always brought to his life. It was a good thing self-loathing was also one of his perpetual states. At least there was comfort in sameness.

**** 

He’d been right. 

As the week went on, the influx phone calls coming in at all hours to Swan Bonds went from a deluge to sprinkles. Emma thought at first it may have been the PR efforts Killian and his team put forth. The first was an interview in _Us Weekly_ where he talked about coming home to Boston followed by a few group pictures uploaded to IG with emphasis placed on old friends. The pièce de résistance was a photograph of Emma’s rum and Coke-soaked blouse with the hashtags #whenyouspillonyourbuddysshirt, #atleastIpaidforthedrycleaning and #tellyourboyfriendnottobemadatme. 

Only their tiny group knew the last one was homage for all of the times they’d listened to “What’s Your Fantasy” by Ludacris when Will got a wild hair up their ass during sophomore year and tried to get Killian and Robin to start a rap group. The rest of the world quickly backed off Emma’s jock when they assumed she was in a relationship. 

Saturday brought a busy morning of playing catch up on paperwork and another delivery by a giant hulk of a man whose presence in her office doorway actually darkened the room a little. He introduced himself as Anton and said he did security for Killian Jones, and Emma ushered him in, trying to not laugh as he twisted his body and all but had to prop his weight onto one ass cheek in order to fit into her visitor’s chair. 

“Mr. Jones asked me to bring you a few things for later.” He slid a few pieces of paper and a set of keys out of an envelope and handed them to her, his hand dwarfing hers and she reached out to take them. “He’d like you to leave your car at home and take the one I’m leaving out in your parking lot instead. It’s nothing fancy but he felt your personal vehicle was a little conspicuous.” 

Emma looked out the window at the bright yellow Bug. Couldn’t really argue with him there. 

“There are directions to a slip at Boston Harbor. I’ll meet you there at two-thirty and ferry you out to where Mr. Jones will be waiting with the boat and be on call when you’re ready to come back.” 

Thanking him, Emma suppressed another giggle as Anton stood and the chair tried to go with him. She walked him out so he could show her the car even though it was the only other one in the lot – _just covering my bases, ma’am_ – and waved as he climbed into the passenger seat of an SUV waiting at the curb. 

The giddiness she had been tamping down all morning rose to the forefront when she looked down at the set of keys in her hand. Eyeing the Mercedes, she wasn’t sure if it was any less conspicuous than her own vehicle but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to turn down a chance to drive a nice car. 

“Wow, is that yours?” Henry came barreling out of the office, stopping short of reaching out with a peanut butter smeared hand to touch the driver’s side window when Emma lightly hip checked him to stop his forward momentum. “Does this mean no more deathtrap?” 

Rolling her eyes at David wherever he may be and his rude assessment of her vehicular choices that had clearly rubbed of onto her kid, she slung an arm around Henry. 

“Sorry, kid. Just a loaner for today. You need to go finish your reading minutes for school and wash up. We have to swing by home to grab some things for the boat.” 

With a whoop, Henry ran back into the building, leaving Emma and a smudge of peanut butter on the door handle behind. She used her ratty sweatshirt sleeve to clean it off and headed back toward her office. 

Work before pleasure. 

**** 

He was nervous. 

Like, pit sweat nervous. 

Killian paced around the boat he rented for the day, grateful for the cooling breeze and going from deck to cabin and back again to ensure everything was perfect. There were coolers filled with juice boxes and a variety of chips; the freezer held a few pizzas small enough to fit in the tiny oven, along with build your own sundae fixings for later. Perhaps not the healthiest offering for Henry but since his profession had failed to impress the boy Killian thought maybe some good, old-fashioned junk food would do the trick. Unsure if Emma drank when her son was around, there was soda along with beer and wine tucked into the mini fridge in the kitchen next to some fruit and cheese. 

The sound of a motor coming close brought him up out of the galley, heart tripping double time. Anton cut the engine right when Killian’s feet hit the deck and the two worked in tandem to get the buoys in place. The second it was safe, a speeding bundle of energy came up the rope ladder and threw itself at Killian. He wrapped his arm as best he could around Henry’s shoulders in a half hug as the kid clung to his waist, one hand reaching out to Emma as she climbed fairly unceremoniously on board, waving to Anton as he left. 

“Yeah, pretty sure that poor man just got a full flash of my ass while I was coming up.” 

She looked stunning in a floral sundress and floppy hat, working to get her footing on the gently rocking deck in a pair of flat sandals. Looking her up and down as salaciously as Killian could manage in front of her kid she punched his shoulder when he muttered something about all men striving to be so poor as to get a flash of Swan ass. 

Killian reached to take the bag she had slung over her shoulder while Henry pulled on his wrist, talking a mile a minute about the book he’d checked out of the school library about boats then starting in on rapid fire questions. 

“Hey, Mr. Jones! Did you know we’re on the port side of the boat? Is that the sail? How big is it? Is the anchor down right now? Mom, can I go look on the other side?” Henry was bouncing on his toes in excitement and Killian could barely get a word in edgewise to tell the kid to knock it off with that “mister” crap. 

“Not without a life jacket, kid. You know the rule.” Emma ignored Henry as he tried in vain to wheedle his way about of wearing the bulky child sized vest Killian handed her, perking up only when she reminded him that when he was on a ship, he had to follow captain’s orders. 

Hearing his cue, Killian stood tall, looking down his nose at Henry with an air of superiority. 

“That’s right. First mates must always listen to their captain.” He grinned when Henry all but shouted his new title in Emma’s ear and, safety gear firmly in place, went bounding to the other side of the deck. Killian laughed when he realized both he and Emma were standing there with their heads cocked, waiting to make sure Henry didn’t vibrate himself right off the side and into the water in his exuberance. 

“Sorry, he’s a little hyper,” said Emma, finding her bearings and walking just far enough away from Killian to be able to keep an eye on the boy as he leaned over the teak railing, peering into the water. 

“It’s no trouble at all, Swan. I may have geeked out a bit myself when I came on board. This ship’s a marvel.” He patted the windshield. “Can I get you and Henry something to drink? I have wine if you’d like. Or beer.” 

“No Fuzzy Navel?” She pouted convincingly and Killian mentally kicked himself, face falling until he realized she was fucking with him and, looking to make sure Henry’s attention was elsewhere, discreetly shot her the finger. “Wine is fine, thanks,” she laughed. “Maybe you should have some to take the edge off. Or that stick out of your ass.” 

Killian turned away from her, bowing deeply to show off the aforementioned ass, and invited Henry to come take a dime tour of the cabin area. There was a good amount of space below and the kid wanted to know everything about everything, already downing a Capri Sun and a half by the time they headed back up the steps. Henry took a breath just long enough for Killian to be able to shove a wineglass in Emma’s hand before asking if they could go swimming. 

The day was hot when the wind died down and Killian was happy to hop back down below to change out of his tee shirt and cargos in favor of a pair of board shorts. He waited even more petulantly than Henry for his turn to be slathered with sunscreen, the protest dying on his lips as Emma’s hands slicked over his shoulders and down his back. Watching her as she turned him and started to rub the lotion into his chest, he put his hands on her wrists to hold them still, the water’s movement rocking her into him. 

“I think I can handle the front myself, Swan. Unless you want to-” he stepped back and made a sweeping motion downward. She blushed and he booped her on the nose, making quick work covering every inch of visible skin under Emma’s watchful eye as she made sure Henry’s life jacket was fastened properly. Man, when she got into Mom mode it was kind of intimidating. He loved it. 

They left her to lounge on the deck, Killian solemnly promising no harm would to the boy while Henry was in his charge before saluting and diving off the back of the boat. She leaned over the seat to watch Henry jump down into Killian’s outstretched arms and left them to their antics, mouthing a grateful _thank you_. 

Exhausted after forty minutes of letting a lanky eight-year-old dunk him underwater and climb onto his back for makeshift dolphin rides, Killian begged for a break and shoved Henry back up the ladder, telling him to towel off his feet before going down into the galley for a snack. 

Drying off, Killian walked up to the bow and stopped short when he saw Emma sunbathing in a black bikini. The bottoms stretched low across her hips and tied at the sides. The top, had it been on, would have fastened the same way at the neck and across her back but his eyes had an unimpeded view from the nape of her neck all the way down to her upper ass thanks to all of that blonde hair being pulled up into one of her favored top knots. She was leanly muscled through the upper arms and shoulders and all the way down her back. Then there was that ass looked like someone could bounce a quarter off of it. 

Had she been any other woman, he would have already rolled her onto her back and slipped a hand down into those tiny bikini bottoms but Killian was stuck in place, throat dry. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” 

Her voice startled him and he slipped in the puddle around his feet, catching himself on the railing before he could fall on his ass. The ensuing laughter was loud and melodious and when he righted himself, Killian saw Emma propped up on one elbow, her other hand holding the bikini top to her chest. 

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were back up or I would have made sure I was presentable.” She quickly sat up and turned her back to him, righting her clothing and making quick work of tying the strings back in place before standing. 

Killian gestured toward her, staring directly at her cleavage, tongue in cheek. “Feel free to present yourself to me any time, darling.” He cocked an eyebrow. 

“This is how it’s going to be, Jones? Innuendo and jokes?” 

Emma faced him directly and arms akimbo, all flat stomach, strong thighs and long legs. He was a slave to the gym to work off the booze and ensure he didn’t look like a aging, tubby bitch in his leather pants. She looked like she worked out to stay strong in order to get the upper hand on bail jumpers twice her size; completely feminine and utterly capable. Killian’s mind wandered even further, wondering how she’d use her strength to her advantage in the bedroom. 

He let out a strangled hum when she bent over to pick up her towel without having to bend her knees and he turned quickly, holding his towel over an insistently lengthening erection instead of torturing himself staring at the tiny bit of material between her legs, imagining what lay beneath. 

Luckily, a tireless third grader made for an excellent and wholly welcome boner killer. 

“Mom! Killian said we can go sailing!!” He’d found the Cheetos and Emma nimbly danced away from Henry’s orange fingers, moving back to the seating and leaving her son to listen raptly while Killian explained how to hoist and stow the anchor. 

“The Jolly Roger is ready to set sail.” Henry’s solemn announcement made Killian grin as he made some final adjustments to the rigging, the boy already toying lightly with the wheel. 

“Is that so? The Jolly Roger? Taking the pirate thing a little far, huh, Jones?” Emma wasn’t even looking at him, face turned up to soak in the sun, but he could hear the amusement in her voice. He nudged her bare foot with his as he stood near her. 

“You wanna be my booty, Swan?” Killian said it lowly so only she could hear and he didn’t miss the flash of interest when he stood above her. “Your boy picked the name. I’m Captain Hook, he’s Mister Smee and you’re Wendy.” 

“Is that so?” Emma sat up and held out her hand, eyes boring into his and full of mischief. “Where’s my kiss then?” 

Killian looked from her hand back to her face, and tossed a glance over his shoulder for good measure. Henry was completely preoccupied. Killian took her hand in his and turned it over, bending at the waist and leaning in with every intention of brushing his mouth over her knuckles. His breath hitched when she leaned in as well and tilted her head up to intercept him, lips brushing softly against his. 

Ten years of waiting to kiss her again and it was too brief and all too chaste. It was perfect. 

“Thank you for this. For meeting Henry.”

All he could do was nod and mumble some ineloquent words about how she’d done a great job raising him, hoping she knew he wanted to say more but just couldn’t. With a squeeze of her hand she let go of his and he turned away to see which direction Henry had managed to take them. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Just one more. Please, Killian?”

Filled to bursting with pizza and ice cream, Henry lay on the bench opposite the small fold down table in the cabin, head in Emma’s lap. His eyes had been drooping, drowsy from sun, swimming and the fact that it was already two hours past his bedtime. 

So much for getting him home early. 

Killian sat across from them perched on the corner of his own bench, guitar across his thighs and a smile on his slightly sunburned face. 

You can lead a musician to SPF 50 but you can’t make him remember to reapply. 

“Only if your mom says it’s okay.” He winked at Emma and even though she knew the smart choice would be to call for Anton and head back to shore and bundle a tired kid into the backseat of a car that absolutely did NOT look out of place at Boston Harbor thanks to the owners of the numerous yachts docked there, she couldn’t say no. 

Partly because she rarely got to see Henry interact with an adult male who didn’t work for her and partly because, well, she didn’t fucking want to. 

Emma felt a sudden, stark kinship with Cinderella and what she must have been thinking booking it down the palace steps away from Prince Charming trying to stick to a deadline. That is, of course, if the prince was a rock star famous the world over as much for his music as his manwhorish ways, and who had just played the _SpongeBob Squarepants_ theme song in a dozen different styles to entertain her son. 

“Last one,” she told Killian, serving up a hefty side of unspoken “and I mean it” for both his and Henry’s benefit since they’d already weaseled two encores out of her. 

Leaning her head back, Emma let herself be carried by the soft music and the gentleness of Killian’s voice as he closed his mini concert showcasing a wide array of talent playing rock, metal, jazz, the blues, country and a completely original cover of the cartoon theme in Donald Duck’s voice. This time he invoked the spirit of Jason Mraz playing “I’m Yours” and the island undertones finally pulled Henry under. 

Stowing his guitar, Killian sat forward, elbows on his knees just watching Henry for a moment. He looked happy and, Emma wasn’t entirely sure, but maybe at peace? She was out of practice reading his face but had a sneaking suspicion the person she knew all those years ago was who she saw before her. There was such a stark contrast between his personas; sex god onstage, bad boy of the tabloids and the man who spent the day tirelessly bumming around with an eight year old that it made her head spin. 

So lost in thought, Emma missed what Killian was saying to her and let out a fairly rude “what??” that made him chuckle in the midst of a nervous scratch behind his ear. 

“I asked if you and Henry wanted to stay here tonight. You two can take the bigger bed back there,” he jerked a thumb to his right, “or you can each have your own space and I can put him in the smaller bed up in the bow. I can bunk on the floor.” 

Emma thought about saying no. Actually, that was a lie. She thought about screaming, “YES!” just to soak up a little more of this version of Killian. In the end, she nodded, letting him scoop Henry up and depositing him in the wedge-shaped sleeping space up front. Once he painstakingly tucked a blanket around her kid, Killian took her hand, leading the way up the steps and out onto the deck. 

* * *

“You just make him wait around to be at your beck and call?” Emma nudged Killian hard enough for him to flail around in an attempt to keep from rolling off the huge inflatable chaise float he’d set up for them to sit on to watch the stars. She was adorably unguarded, moonlight and mirth making her eyes shine as she advocated on Anton’s behalf a short time after Killian made a call to dismiss him for the night. 

Righting himself, Killian tried to explain the nature of Anton’s job description without sounding like a dick, propping himself up on his side to look at Emma. 

“Look, I know it sounds fucked up. But I learned early on in my career that having someone close by that is loyal and trustworthy is completely necessary. When I’m busy working or trying to go under the radar, he’s like Morgan Freeman in _The Shawshank Redemption_ : a man who can get things. Anton is a buffer of sorts between me and the rest of the world.” 

Flinging an arm over her face, Emma let out a muffled giggle. 

“Yeah, well he’s built like a brick shithouse. Good luck to anyone trying to get past him.” 

Killian poked her in the side and was grateful when her arm came back down. If he was going to have this short amount of time with Emma, he damn well wanted to be able to see her face. 

“True. And let’s not pretend I don’t pay him well.” That got her attention and he teetered on the edge of the float again when she sat up and stared at him. “What?” 

“How well?” She waved her hand between them when Killian gaped. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fucking rude to ask but I want to know. How much does your go-to guy get paid to stick around a harbor for, like, seven hours or however long it was before you benevolently grant him permission to go home?”

Money was something he didn’t like to talk about, mostly because it invited moochers, but even Emma’s teasing tone didn’t fully absolve him of feeling slightly indignant and he blurted it out as a way to defend himself. 

“Two hundred fifty thousand annually. Medical, dental and vision plans with holidays, his wife and kids’ birthdays, and fifteen other paid days off a year.” 

“You can afford to pay one employee a quarter million dollars a year?” 

Killian stole a look at Emma and snorted at the expression on her face, jaw dropped comically in shock. 

Looking for something to do with his hands so he didn’t extend one to close her mouth with a finger under the chin, he reached for the nearby wine, having every intention of pouring them each a glass but throwing his hands up when Emma grabbed it from him and took a swig directly from the bottle before he could fill his own. Killian started to protest, not that he needed or even wanted a drink, but he thought it would steer Emma away from her line of questioning. 

“So how much money do you have?” 

“Somewhere in the ballpark of forty-seven million.” 

Someone else may have hesitated, maybe downplayed or even let someone else handle finances to the point where they didn’t even know, as was all too common in his line of work. But that was how bitches went broke and even as perpetual a fuck up as he was, Killian had no intention of ever going bankrupt. He lived large but within his means, investing well and saving religiously, a practice left over from his early days bumming around the country for low paying gigs with Will and Robin. 

“But…how?” 

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the past ten years, Swan? Putting out albums. Touring. Doing collaborations and some producing on the side. Writing for other artists. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around with my dick in my hand.” The jerk-off motion down by his crotch drew her gaze and Killian took stock, filing away the glazed look on her face for – hopefully - another time. 

“So aside from Anton, do you do any good with that money? Or are you just a total LOMBARD?” Eyes shining, Emma shook her head, averting her gaze bringing the bottle back up to her lips. Now it was his turn to let his mind wander a bit as she ran her tongue a few inches up the neck to catch an errant drop and it nearly kept him from cluing into the last word. 

“Wait – what the fuck is a LOMBARD?” 

“Oh, shit!” 

He caught Emma right before she tumbled a whole three inches off their perch and onto the bow of the boat, wrapping an arm around her waist and hauling her back to rights and (mostly) unintentionally flush against him. She sighed and melted into him, tangling her legs with his and ducking her head down to bury her nose into his chest. 

She didn’t move for a while and even though the arm pinned under her was going numb, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance Killian was going to move. Thinking she had drifted off to sleep, the length of the day and the gentle rock of the boat finally getting to her as it did Henry, and he risked pressing his lips to the top of her head and froze when Emma shifted in his arms and he felt a light pressure on his sternum. At first he thought he was mistaken because he thought there was no way in hell Emma Swan just kissed his chest, but then her head moved, lips trailing up to his neck and moving over the skin with just the faintest of brushes. 

When her mouth skimmed just under his ear Killian sucked in a breath. When her tongue snaked out to taste, his hand came up to cup the back of her head in a tentative display of encouragement. Emma took the cue and, tangling her hand into his hair, fused her lips to his pulse point, alternating between nibbling bites and soothing swipes of her tongue. 

It was everything and, at the same time, not nearly enough. 

God, he was afraid. Afraid to move. Afraid to speak. Afraid to lose her. Afraid to keep her. Afraid to think that if she knew everything there was to know about him she wouldn’t want him. 

She breathed his name against his jaw, just the faintest of whispers, and plea or prayer, it breathed life into his heart, opening the lock on the sliver of hope he’d held onto all of these years when it came to Emma. 

Their first kiss in ten years was a testament to the entire arc of their relationship up until that point; a slow burn that threatened to undo Killian from the inside out, but instead of leaving scorched earth behind, it created a new path. One that had him kissing Emma like he’d always wanted to: deep and thoroughly, eyes opening to ground himself in the sight of her blonde hair wrapped around his fingers. She tasted like sweet wine when her tongue curled around his and Killian let out a groan when her knee came up to hitch over his hip. 

The inflatable chaise they were laying on made a rude noise as he rolled over her, their kiss breaking as they both started to laugh. Emma’s head dropped over the side, the movement opening up the long column of her throat and pushing her chest upward, and he wasted no time returning the favor of laving her skin with attention, pulling the neck of her sundress down to suck a light mark into the swell of her breast. 

Blunt fingernails scraped painlessly over his scalp when her back arched as his mouth closed over a nipple, but he relished when Emma pulled on his hair. It earned her a pleased him and she spread her fingers and tugged harder, the little bit of pain mixing with Killian’s pleasure as he settled squarely between her thighs, and it took every ounce of his self-control to not rut into her. 

A sudden rock of the boat and his over eagerness to oblige when Emma craned for a kiss changed all that. 

Her lips dropped away from his at the first thrust and Killian abandoned his quest for a good, old-fashioned make out session in favor of trying to hold his hips up and away so Emma didn’t think he was channeling a football player trying to dry hump the prom queen in the backseat of his dad’s car. 

She had other ideas. 

Long, lean legs snaked around his hips, her ankles locking beneath his ass. He was beyond hard and the zipper of his shorts, baggy as they were, still provided some discomfort, but he wasn’t about to start undressing out without an invitation. She arched up into him, pressing her core against the bulge in his shorts. The sensation was almost more than he could take and Killian dropped his head down onto her chest as she rocked up into him. 

“Killian, let me feel you.” Emma’s teeth closed around his earlobe and he faltered, the click of her teeth against the black diamond stud he always wore almost drowning out what she said next. “Please, I need…” 

That was all it took. He started to move, holding himself up over her so he could watch her face. A long drag here, an abbreviated thrust or two there, cataloging every sigh and bite of her lower lip to learn what she liked, wishing with every fiber of his being they were tucked away on a giant, fluffy bed somewhere instead of out in the open. 

She deserved more and better. More than half hanging off a makeshift air mattress on the bow of a boat. Better than him. But if this is all they had, this moment together, he was going to make it memorable. 

Kissing Emma with every ounce of untold reverence he’d ever had for her, Killian broke away and rolled back onto his knees, nuzzling his way down to her lower belly. Eyes on hers, he slid the hem of her dress to her waist, waiting for her to stop him if she so wished. Instead, she worked the dress the rest of the way off and small hands reached down to pull the ties on her bikini bottoms, letting the back fall away. She braced her feet, lifting her ass up so he could whisk the fabric away and Killian had to mentally ready himself before he looked down. 

 _Exquisite_ was all he could think at the sight of her bare, and he reached out a slightly shaky hand with every intention of doing something – anything – that would make her want him as much as he wanted her. Emma was flushed and breathless, and the chant of _don’t fuck this up_ inside Killian’s head stilled his outstretched hand. 

Emma squirmed as Killian’s eyes raked over her and he felt like a creeper of the highest order caught ogling. A flustered apology was on the tip of his tongue when she spoke over him. 

“I’m sorry, you’re probably not used to this.” Her hand trailed down, fingers spreading over faint purple streaks on belly and hips in an attempt to hide them. “The stretch marks and all-“ 

They were pressed together from chest to knees as he launched his body over hers, hands braced on either side of her head, faces a hairsbreadth apart. 

“You’re perfect.” Killian slid his nose down Emma’s, whispering when she started to protest. “Shhh. You. Are. Perfect. You always have been.” 

Forever stubborn and argumentative, she tried again and he steadfastly ignored her, bending his head to suck lightly on the spot just below her ear. Emma’s back arched and he worked his way down, tongue and fingers working in tandem on her breasts before moving lower. Killian lingered on the places she’d tried to hide from him, fingertips splaying over the subtle grooves in the planes of her lower abdomen. He kissed and licked his way from one hipbone to the other, stopping dead center, and eyes locking onto hers. 

All the years between them hadn’t diminished his ability to read her, although the question Killian silently asked was unchartered territory. Emma looked thoroughly fuckstruck and they’d barely begun. His ego temporarily swelled at the idea of how easy it was for him to entice her but was beaten back by the sudden rush of the voice inside his head reminding Killian she wasn’t just another woman, another conquest. She was, and had always been, so much more, and if she didn’t want to hear it, then he’d be damned if he didn’t show her. 

* * *

  _Oh, God._

 The words might have been said out loud or maybe just in her head, but regardless of the conduit by which they ran, the sentiment remained the same.

  _Oh, God._  

Killian was looking up at her, eyes full of sin, sex and, if what had gone down already was any indication, a very, _very_ good time. If he was expecting a verbal answer, one wasn’t going to come, but the look on his face said if he had any say in the matter, she would. 

A small breath slipped between his lips, the warmth ghosting over where she was wet and wanting, and the actual jolt it sent through Emma’s body broke the hesitancy of the moment. His mouth fused to her the same moment she reached down to grab a fistful of dark hair, fingers roughly threading through the strands as Killian’s tongue lapped. Kittenish licks mixed with bold strokes, his eyes locked on her face, taking stock of the way her breath hitched and eyes closed and adjusting his efforts accordingly. 

 _Oh, God? More like sweet, merciful Jesus._  

Legs starting to shake, Emma was stuck between wanting to fall hard and fast, and wanting it to last. She found herself squirming in a half-assed attempt to get away but there was that damn death grip on his hair sending a mixed signal. When she looked down, he had as much a shit-eating grin on his face as his moving tongue allowed and before she could say anything, Killian shifted. Grip tightening as the building rush started to fade, Emma was afraid he’d done all he was going to do. 

A few wet flicks to her clit and the smooth slide of a guitarist’s finger to the hilt put things back on track. 

Killian looked pleased with himself just before Emma’s eyes rolled back into her damn head again and she wondered what the hell even came after a merciful Jesus because she was getting there. Fast. One finger became two and the two became curled, moving just right, the melding of tongue and touch so close to being too much and not enough all at once. She had the sense to clap a hand over her mouth as she came, muffling a scream that would have pierced the night as her thighs snapped, caging his dark head in between. 

Barely catching a breath, Emma struggled to sit up, reaching for Killian as he sat back on his knees. She wanted more. Wanted everything, all of him, shaky hands fumbling with the button on his shorts and abandoning the effort in favor of slipping a hand beneath his waistband to wrap her fingers around bare skin. He’d felt so good moving against her, she wanted him inside her, and Emma craned her neck to kiss him, stroking her tongue into his mouth to keep the momentum going. 

Killian seemed up for the challenge in _every_ way. 

He hauled Emma onto her knees; his hips jutted back enough to make room for her busy hand. One hand anchored in her hair, moving her head this way and that in a manner that left her thoroughly kissed and thoroughly wanting until he broke away, leaving Emma to work what she hoped was some magic on the underside of his jaw. The other hand slipped between her legs, two fingers flattened on either side of her clit, caressing the sensitive flesh. The man did know his erogenous zones. 

Completely focused on the kisses and nips she was tattooing into his scruff, Emma barely heard Killian when he spoke and he chuckled when she let out an indelicate “Huh?” against his skin. _Nice going with the manners, Emma._

“I said, that feels incredible, love.” The hand in her hair came down to close over hers, separated only by the fabric of his shorts because of course wouldn’t hesitate to go commando. He hissed as she picked up her pace, the hotness of basically jacking him off together affecting him as much as it did her. “Yes, Emma. Just like that.” 

The pace of his fingers picked up, fingers gently pinching together to trap her clit every third stroke or so and it felt so good, Emma almost didn’t want him to stop. Almost. 

“Killian, I want you.” 

_Oh, smooth. Way to just lay it all out there._

While she was kicking herself, Killian squeezed her hand, gasping a little when in turn she squeezed his cock. He ducked his head the crown pushing her chin up, lips brushing her throat, fingers not letting up for a second. Tracing his tongue to her ear, he whispered, “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t bring condoms. Ow, fuck, with the Kung Fu Grip, Swan!” 

Killian pulled his hips back and Emma lurched forward, hand stuck in his waistband as he tried to escape her fist clenching in frustration. 

“Sorry! Sorry. How the hell don’t you have condoms? Don’t you fuck anything that moves?” Emma realized how big of a dick move that was – _ugh, stop thinking about BIG dicks and moves_ – and was on the verge of attempting to smooth things over when he kissed the words off of her tongue. 

It was filthy as far as kisses went, not that anything going on below their waists could be considered chaste. They settled where they left off, Killian breaking away once more to whisper again in her ear. 

“We may not be able to f _uck_ , Emma,” he breathed, “but I can make you come again. Should I try just my hand this time? See how quickly I can get you to gush around my fingers?” Emma keened as he slipped one inside. “I only backed off last time because you wanted me to. Not this time darling. Unless you don’t think you can handle it.” 

Killian popped the “t” as he began fucking into her faster and faster, the roughness of his knuckles brushing against sensitive skin as his thumb found her clit. Emma almost sobbed, dropping her face into the juncture of his shoulder, fingernails biting into his shoulder, and canting her pelvis forward to open herself up even more for him. She was vaguely aware of his cock sliding against her palm, Killian thrusting against her hand to find some friction of his own. Any help Emma could give him was lost as another orgasm rolled through her and she cried out his name against the sharpness of his collarbone, her grip on him tightening. 

As he slowed down, she picked up speed and it was her turn to whisper dirtily in his ear. 

“My turn, Killian.” Emma bit his earlobe, relishing in the slight tremble of his thighs. 

Emma found the rhythm that had Killian throwing his head back and a recitation of profanity falling from his lips. When she felt his cock swell and the warmth of his hand fall away from its spot over hers, she kept the pace, bringing him to a climax that knocked both of them over. 

Arm twisting awkwardly, Emma landed on his chest, her unchecked weight and the fact that they missed their floatation device mattress almost completely making Killian huff out a comical, wheezing cough. She managed to wiggle her sticky hand free and made him laugh with a deadpanned Valley girl “Ew!” as she held it up in the moonlight. 

“Oh, now you’re going to be a gentleman?” she teased as he picked up the edge of the beach towel she'd been lounging on earlier in the day and offered it for her to clean her hand. 

“At least I gave you something, Swan." He reached an arm around her, brushing sticky hair back before pressing a kiss to her temple. “And I’m always a gentleman.” 

The boat rocked as they fell into silence, Killian’s fingers combing through snarled strands tangled by a day on the windy water and their evening activities. His heart drummed a rapid cadence under her ear, chest hair tickling her nose. Mind racing, Emma stopped halfway to throwing a leg across him, her head jostling as he laughed. A hand hooked under her knee, thumb brushing the delicate skin there, and pulled it up until she was plastered to his side, both of his arms around her. 

“Shhh,” he admonished when her mouth dropped open to speak. “Just lay here with me, Swan. Let me hold you.” 

And she did. 

At least until a wailed, “Mooooom,” the sound of a retch and the unmistakable splat of barf hitting the boat deck shattered the peacefulness of the moment.


	5. Chapter 5

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit!”  

Emma scrambled to get herself back to rights in order to help Henry. The sundress she’d stripped off was tossed five feet away and even in the dim light, she could see it was inside out. Killian was holding up one half of her bikini sideways, clearly trying to determine whether it was the top or bottom. As another heave and telltale splatter came from the rear of the boat, he all but threw them at her, quickly doing up the three bottom buttons on his shirt and stuffing the tails down into his boxers, jostling his hand a little to try and clean himself off. 

“Swan, I’ll go see to Henry.” He was already on his feet, moving away from her. “You take a moment.” 

“Killian you don’t have to-“ Cursing under her breath, Emma found the two halves of her bikini and made quick work of tying the bottoms back on, stretching to reach the last piece of discarded clothing as she heard him speak to Henry.

“Come on. We’ll hit the head and see if there’s anything left in that stomach.” 

Emma tied on her top and worked her dress right side in, watching Killian pick Henry up, sidestep what looked to be a pretty spectacular puddle of barf if his wide berth was any indication, and descend down the steps to the cabin. She couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t front, center and on her own dealing with a sick kid, and there was no small twinge of multi-flavored guilt as Emma stood and finished getting dressed.

She felt bad she hadn’t taken Henry home, not that she could have predicted everything he’d eaten would make a splashy reappearance. And felt even worse that her motivation for not doing so had been completely selfish. Add in the fact that she’d taken for granted that Henry slept like the dead and had indulged in some highly illicit sexcapades with one of her oldest friends out in the open on a fucking boat, and Emma was certain she’d hit the jackpot on some sort of Shitty Parenting trifecta. 

Mumbling as much under her breath, she took stock of Henry’s christening on the deck and ducked down into the cabin, following the faint sound of Killian singing. The tiny bathroom was crowded even with just two people in it and Emma leaned against the jamb, her heart tugging at the sight before her. 

Killian sat cross-legged in front of the toilet, Henry in his lap. A soothing hand, bare of its usual array of flashy rings, rubbed over the sweaty shirt sticking to Henry’s back. 

“I think we’re just about empty, Swan. Nothing’s come up since we came in here.” 

Killian’s shirt had a darkened mark up and over the shoulder; Emma realized that her kid had probably chucked on him while being carried and she fumbled out an apology to which Killian held up a hand. 

“No need, love. I have ten years in bars and backstage under my belt with countless people who can’t hold their liquor. Pizza and ice cream is a nice change from Jell-O shots and Jagerbombs.” He murmured something in Henry’s ear and they both started to shift. 

Killian untangled his limbs and stood, stepping out into the cabin and gesturing to Emma as he stepped into the main part of the cabin. 

“So here’s the deal. I can call Anton – _or not_ ,” he finished as Emma couldn’t help the flash of contrition on her face. 

“Since your bleeding heart won’t allow me to do that, you can either stay here and hope the wind doesn’t pick up and toss Henry’s already touchy stomach, or I can ready the sails, pull anchor and have us back at the docks in twenty minutes. You can get that one,” his chin jutted in the direction of the bathroom, “home and in a proper bed. And one that won’t move under him.” 

Trying not to stare at Killian’s abs as he did an oddly intriguing body roll shrugging his soiled shirt off, Emma teased him to distract herself. 

“You can do all of that in twenty minutes?” She blurted it without thinking just as her eyes slammed shut and she desperately tried to not allow a sudden highlight reel of everything he’d proven he could do to her body in just half that time race through her head. 

_Congratulations, Emma. You played yourself._

When her eyes opened, Killian was looking at her with an amused and altogether knowing smile on his face. 

“I’m a hell of a captain.” He dragged a clean tee shirt over his head, purple-tipped hair managing to dishevel even more, as his voice dropped into a deeper register and he leaned in toward her ear. “And you’ve experienced first hand how nimble my hands are, haven’t you, love? A few sailor’s knots are nothing.” To put an exclamation point on it, he ghosted his fingertips across her upper chest, and looked entirely too pleased when her breath hitched. 

 _Smug bastard._  

“So what will it be?” He stepped away and leaned his ass against a built-in stack of drawers, bending a knee to rest a bare foot against the wood, looking every inch the suave motherfucker he was until the boat lurched, sprawling them both onto the bench seat behind her knees. A heaving noise and a groaned, “Moooom” had Emma bouncing up to see to Henry, the thought of spending the rest of the night huddled with him in the tiny bathroom as he yacked making her decision for her. 

“Let’s get him home.” 

Killian’s sincere “as you wish” was background noise – and Emma knew he didn’t mind – as she rushed to help her kid. Settling behind Henry, she smoothed his hair back when his head dropped back onto her shoulder and, taking a cue from their Captain, started telling him the story of Wesley and Buttercup to keep his mind off the rolling waves. 

* * *

 

“I told you land legs are a thing, Swan.” Killian tried not to laugh as he watched Emma walking ahead; her arms comically out to the side for balance on the wide pier. Her shuffling reminded him of a pregnant woman and, for a split second, he had a strong mental image of her with child – _his_ child – and it caused a rush of emotion that started with an ache in his heart and ended with an eye roll. They’d just traded orgasms on a boat deck after spending the last decade of their lives at a distance that, if he was being honest, was emotionally safe for both of them and his stupid brain was already knocking her up. 

Talk about putting the fucking cart before the horse. 

He hefted Henry into a more comfortable position on his shoulder and followed Emma up the ramp to the access gate and through it, eyes sweeping the darkened recesses of the area as they made their way past the permit-only parking reserved for house boat residents and slip owners to the visitor’s lot. 

Only two cars remained; the rental Emma had driven and a white van that screamed “free candy”. Killian caught a whiff of cigarette smoke almost hidden in a gust of wind that came from the direction of the van. 

The driver’s side window of the van was open, an arc of orange light falling to the ground as the occupant flicked the cigarette out onto the pavement. It joined a pile of other discarded butts on the ground and Killian’s stomach reeled just as the vehicle’s door started to open. 

“Emma, go. Run!” He nudged her just as the first flash went off, putting himself between her and the photographer and shifting Henry into a bridal-style carry with his face tucked into Killian’s neck so he wasn’t visible. 

“What?” Turning instinctively to look, another flash illuminated her face, horror and panic flooding her features when she realized what was happening. “Oh, fuck!” 

The lurk-for-hours-smoking habit didn’t keep the photographer from keeping up with them and Killian tried to block out the wheedling pleas begging him for a pic. 

“C’mon, man, I’m a big fan. I just need one clear one and then I’ll leave you alone.” The rapid click of the camera’s shutter as the man tried to get a shot of Henry over the top of Killian’s shoulder almost managed to drown out the bullshit but did nothing to mute the indignant, “HEY!” shouted in Killian’s ear when his elbow connected with the asshole’s ribs just as they reached the Mercedes. 

Killian knew the nudge would only buy them a little time, so he shoved Henry into Emma’s arms. 

“Get him out of here. I’ll handle this.” 

He barely had time to see Emma bundle Henry in the backseat and shoot him a fearful look, hesitating just a moment. 

“Go!” 

She sat down into the car, legs swinging in at the same time the engine roared to life. The tires squealed as Emma hit the unfamiliar gas pedal and peeled out of the parking space, nearly colliding with a second van as it raced into the harbor parking lot. Before he could register what was happening the shove he was expecting for throwing an elbow came. The words, on the other hand, were something for which he was not prepared and they had him seeing red. 

“You assaulted me first and my buddy here has it all on camera. I’m gonna sue your ass for everything you have. I hope that whore and her dumb kid is worth it, pretty boy. “ 

He wasn’t sure which split first: his knuckles or the skin under the photographer’s eye when Killian’s fist made contact. 

* * *

 

 Moving around the kitchen bleary-eyed and thanking the Vomit Gods that Henry had been sleeping uninterrupted for a while, Emma brewed a strong cup of coffee designed to counteract the four hours of sleep she’d had. 

The drive home consisted of two stops – one for ginger ale and crackers at a gas station convenience store and one two miles down the road when the few bites and tentative sips he took hasn’t stayed down. A car slowed to a crawl as it passed their spot on the side of the road, the driver’s neck craning. On edge and paranoid she was being followed, Emma drove exactly the speed limit the rest of the way, eyes darting to the rearview and side mirrors every time another vehicle’s headlights came into view.

Instead of picking up her own car, she drove straight home, huffing as she carried Henry inside. Getting him changed out of his sweaty, barf-flecked clothes had been like trying to wrestle a wet tee shirt off a tranquilized monkey and by the time Emma got him in bed, she was sweaty herself. 

What was going to be a quick shower turned into a long one, her back turned to the water as she let the sharpest setting on the showerhead help beat back the headache she had from the tense drive home. By the time she checked on Henry one last time and collapsed into bed, the dawn of light was already seeping around edges of the blinds hung in the bedroom windows. 

She blinked against the full light of day now, scowling at the brightness coming in over the kitchen window, taking her cup to the kitchen table and opening her laptop. Just because she’d taken the day off yesterday her business hadn’t, and Emma gulped coffee as she accessed her four usual tabs: Gmail, the Swan Bonds, L.L.C. banking books, a shared Excel spreadsheet of their current outstanding bonds, and MSN’s homepage. 

Catch up with a few emails, check to make sure payroll had deducted properly, look to see if the band of hooligans one of her bondsmen had dubbed the Seven Dwarfs were going to – once again – collectively pay her bills next month via their latest bout of fuckery and felony, and catch up on the news. 

Waiting for the other programs and pages to load, Emma clicked over to the MSN tab and took a few more sips of coffee, holding the warm cup in both hands as she let the slideshow of headlines scroll, perusing them with varying degrees of interest. The sponsored ad for building a Halo army on Xbox one got the least amount of attention. A story about a couple that converted an airport cargo van into an 80 square foot home earned a single-too-long scoff at the claustrophobia of living in such cramped quarters with someone. 

With her eyes rolling, she missed all but a glance at the next slide. A shock of purple hair caught her eye right as it was replaced with an article about must-dos for this month’s budget. Emma’s coffee sloshed out over her wrist as she tried to put it down and banged against the edge of the table instead. Wiping her hand on her leggings, she quickly clicked the back button and stared. 

_Killian Jones Arrested._

A quick Google search showed the media was going apeshit over what one site dubbed his “latest bout of bad boy antics.” 

The photographs were much clearer than the ones of them by the tour bus; Killian swinging wildly at the paparazzo that tried to get photos of Henry, getting tackled by a second, larger man and being bent over a police car as a cop read him his rights and put him in handcuffs.

Clicking through the more salacious gossip sites, Emma learned a source inside the police department revealed he’d been booked on assault charges thanks to the paparazzo’s broken eye socket.

TMZ had footage of him coming out of the of the county lockup in plain-ish view of a huge crowd of media and onlookers, and Emma couldn’t figure out why the hell he hadn’t called her to bail him out. She didn’t know what bond office he had used, but it was clearly one without the connections hers had. She would have been able to get him into a car in one of the underground garages to save him the perp walk. 

Rewinding the video, she scrutinized his face as one of the cameras zoomed in. He had a black eye and a split lip and Killian gave a half-assed wave to the screaming crowd as he hopped into a Suburban that inched forward when it cleared the gates until the crowd parted and then sped away. 

Emma picked up her phone, ready to unleash hell and thumbs of fury texting him when a gravelly voice came from the doorway of the kitchen. 

Henry was leaning against the wall, looking a tragic mix of better and forlorn. Put to bed in just underwear, he was dressed in a kick-around-the-house tee shirt and a pair of sweatpants; her first sign he was on the mend. Emma had a firm “no nips at the table” policy and when Henry had those growing boy days when he woke up ravenous, food and the necessary clothes to partake came before anything else. 

“I’m starving.” He brushed past her and opened the pantry, perusing his cereal options. Sighing heavily when Emma tossed out a “nope” as he reached for the box of Lucky Charms he’d begged her to buy with his allowance money, Henry settled for plain Cheerios and brought the box to the table. 

Thrust into mom mode, Emma put her phone down, figuring she’d text him later to find out why the hell he hadn’t called her to bail his ass out of jail. Or, better yet, she’d wait for him to call with an explanation. Closing out all the tabs on her computer that mentioned his name, she turned her attention to Henry and tried to push Killian out of her head for the moment. 

* * *

 

That moment turned into a week. A week of going through the five stages of I’m Not Obsessing: worry, backspaced text messages, feigned indifference, anger and the drowning of the sorrows. The very pissed off sorrows.     

Okay, maybe she was halfway between the fourth and fifth steps. 

Being was at home alone on a Saturday night with nothing but her own thoughts and a generous second pour of Pinot Grigio wasn’t helping. Henry was away for the night at Violet’s house and Emma’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. 

Wine glass in one hand and laptop in the other, she settled onto the couch and started reading articles. They ranged from a think piece put out by Rolling Stone musing on the career longevity musicians had after a scandal to pure gossip about what had transpired in the last week that made the photographer drop the assault charges. The leading theory was a big-ass payoff, and Emma had her suspicions it was probably correct considering her name and face hadn’t been linked to the story. Not even once. Killian may have gotten his punches in but his checkbook had been the one to get his point across. 

She still couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t called her and with each passing day, and regret from not reaching out right away built up. Common sense said he was probably embarrassed over ending up in the clink. Overthinking and a bottle of Pinot told a different story. One of regret over the near hook-up on the boat or dipping a toe in the dating waters when there was a kid involved. Maybe she’d read Killian’s vibe with Henry all wrong. Hell, maybe she’d read Killian’s vibe with her all wrong and things were better this way. 

Head fuzzed with wine, Emma shoved the laptop aside and leaned forward to pick her phone up from the coffee table, the wide neck of her off-the-shoulder sweater gaping. Her hand automatically came up to preserve her modesty even though nobody else was home and, as she brushed against the skin of her upper chest and pulled the material up, a faint pull of arousal hit low in her belly at the memory of Killian’s fingers tracing the same spot. 

His fingers _were_ nimble, the asshole.

The thought of texting him for a booty call flew out of her head as quickly as it had flown in. Even tipsy, she knew that shit was a bad idea. Plus, she didn’t think she could handle rejection of the direct variety. No, this passive-aggressive avoidance was about all she could hang with.

_But…_

 

* * *

 

 Fucking _hell_. 

He was pretty sure he’d said it out loud. He was pretty sure at the girl on his left with one hand so far up his thigh her pinkie was brushing his cock had heard him. He was certain, however, that he didn’t give a damn. 

The photo was stunning; all blonde curls, red lips, dipping collarbones and the soft swell of a breast just barely covered by what looked like a sweater. It was unlike anything she’d ever posted on Instagram and it took him by surprise just before it started to arouse him. He shifted abruptly as he felt himself start to thicken against his thigh, knocking the girl’s hand loose so she wouldn’t think she had anything to do with him becoming half hard. 

Killian hadn’t stopped thinking about Emma all week. In the most honest of moments, he was angry. Angry with himself for putting her and Henry in the position to be ambushed by paparazzi and thrown into his public fucked up life against their will. Angry with himself for not texting her. Angry with himself for being weak and wanting, for remembering how she looked coming on his fingers and jerking off in the shower until he spilled over his fist, steam swirling around with his final exhalation of breath, her name on his lips. 

And here she was. Taunting him. 

His thumb hovered over the little heart. Apparently, the bottle of British Royal Navy Imperial rum he’d downed since his publicist and a crisis management team called upon by his record label had arrived that morning and the current moment didn’t him quite enough liquid courage to press it. Instead, he started to trace the curve of her breast in the photo and stopped, erupting with a drunken, chortling laugh he cut short when those within earshot looked over at him. 

Feeling up a photograph. That was bordering on a level of desperation that made him cringe even in his rum-soaked state. 

“Ah, fuck it.” 

 _Press._  

The minute the heart turned red and his named joined Mary Margaret’s under the photo’s likes, he regretted it. What if it wasn’t for him? What if she was seeing someone else? Killian gripped his phone close to his face, glaring at the app, mentally daring anyone else with a dick to acknowledge the exquisite creature on his screen. The vibration from an incoming text message startled him and he stared in disbelief at the name on the screen. 

It was a single line that was all Swan. 

_What the hell, Jones?_

So she had been taunting him. Waiting for him to react. Toying with him. 

Well, two could play at that game. 

Standing, Killian dialed her number and held the phone to his ear, thumb hooked in his belt loop as he leaned against the wall, his alcohol-heavy head lolling a bit. It barely rang before she answered and launched into a tirade.

“You didn’t even call to let me know there was trouble. Or to bail your ass out even though it’s my damn job. I haven’t heard from you in a week and I didn’t know if I should call or if I did something-“ her voice hitched like she was choking back a sob, “something wrong. Just…tell me what you want.”

This was exactly the shit he was trying to avoid. Things were so much easier when they were miles away from each other, both figuratively and literally. It was easier to send flowers and an occasional text, to be linked somehow but still keep her at arm’s length. To not invite her into his complicated life, a life he’d stopped trying to keep private because the fight to keep anything for himself was exhausting and a never-ending battle. But he’d slipped and hoped and ended up coaxing her out with him for a day. To do something she hadn’t wanted to do because she felt like she needed to protect her son and he’d pushed her anyway. And it had backfired. And if she didn’t hate him now, she would soon, so why not just help it along? 

“You’re the one who posted that photograph with one of your tits practically out. What do you think I want?” 

The gasp on her end of the line was a mix of shock and pure indignation. 

“Fuck you, Killian,” 

“Oh, no, darling. If we were in the same place right now, I assure you that _I’d_ be fucking _you_.” Rum spurred on his tongue and he continued. “If you think I was satisfied with just a taste before I’m done with you, you’re mistaken. Why don’t you stop by? I think I can fit you into my schedule.” 

Emma laughed humorlessly, the precipice of hurt she was perched on just a moment before gone at his crude words. 

“And what? Line up with the rest of the Blowjob Brigade to entertain you before you get liquor dick and can’t keep it up anymore? I’ll pass.” 

“Oh, don’t be like that, love. I’d be happy to send most of them home and just keep one as a backup if it meant feeling you come on my cock.” 

“You’re a pig,” she seethed, and Killian cut the last thread holding them – and himself – together. 

“Yeah, well, you were more than willing to lay down and get dirty with me, sweetheart.” 

 _Click._  

Clenching his fist around his phone, Killian scrubbed his face with the other hand feeling his jaw flexing under his fingers. 

 _You stupid bastard._  

The sound of the phone shattering against the floor when he smashed it in a rage barely registered in the crowded room. Heart pounding, he stepped back to the couch, reaching for two of the three things he knew would quiet the chant inside his head. 

The woman he’d been sitting next to hadn’t moved and he plucked the rum bottle she was holding out of her hand and took a healthy swig, making eye contact with her when she looked up in surprise. 

“You look familiar.” It was a bald-faced lie but the suggestion he remembered them from somewhere worked every time, especially when he shifted on his feet and thrust his pelvis forward. The erection he’d been working toward a few minutes ago was gone but there was still plenty to entice without it. 

When her eyes dropped, he chuckled. They were all so easy. 

“I was here before. With my friend.” She looked around and pointed to a blonde coming out of the Glitter Room with white powder around her nose and a glassy look on her face, the sizeable bag of blow she’d swiped disappearing into her clutch. At first glance and through an intoxicated haze, the curls and red lipstick looked close enough and as she spotted them and came over, he saw her eyes were green. 

Reaching a gentlemanly hand out to the woman on the couch, he asked, “How would you and your friend like to go someplace more private?” It took half a second for her to slide her hand over his and Killian pulled her to her feet, gently pushing her in front of him. He walked her out of the room, his front pressed to her back, mouth fused to her neck and a hand snaking down the front of her dress while she snatched the bottle back with one hand and grabbed her friend with the other. 

She breathed her name along with her friend’s into his ear as he maneuvered them through the throngs of people, reaching back to snake a hand up around the back of his neck. Her pointy nails scratched through his hair hard enough to hurt and it took every ounce of self-restraint he had to tell her he didn’t give a fuck what their names were. 

He needed this. Just for a moment. _Just long enough to push the ghost from his past back where she belonged._  

They broke apart at the bottom of the stairs he led the way up and down a hallway to the double doors Anton guarded. 

“No one comes in,” Killian ordered and ushered the girls into his bedroom. 

They pounced the moment the door closed, pushing him against the doors and falling to their knees. The dark-haired one – the one with the giant fake tits that felt like water balloons – went to work on his belt while the other one fumbled with his zipper, their drunken, high-pitched giggles grating over his nerves. From his vantage point, he could see the blonde was a cheap imitation of the woman he was using her to replace; the hair color from a bottle and the green eyes a product of contact lenses. His head swam with rum and regrets, and he decided he needed a moment to get his shit together. 

Batting their hands out of the way, he pushed past them and walked over to the small table in front of the window and gestured to the blonde still on her knees by the door. 

“Get the baggie out of your purse.”

The girls exchanged looks and Killian grew impatient. Maybe these two were a mistake. He snapped his fingers. 

“Look, I don’t give a damn that you took it. Just bring it over here or get the fuck out.” 

Apparently the threat of losing bragging rights after a night with Killian Jones was enough to kick her ass into gear. The baggie was produced along with a razor blade and a short straw. He dropped into one of the chairs and tore the rum bottle from the other girl’s hand and tipped it to his lips. The glug became a chug, his head tipped back and throat working as he drank. 

When he put the bottle down, it was an inch away from empty and the room was spinning. Running his fingers over his lips, he looked at the rows being expertly lined up and stood, swaying so much he had to brace himself on the window. 

Killian pressed himself against the one girl just as he’d done downstairs. It helped stabilize him and, since her heels were still on, had the added benefit of putting her ass at the perfect height to cradle his cock. He thrust into her lightly, savoring the floaty feeling the rum provided, and took her hand and brought it up to his mouth, slipping her index fingertip into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. 

Her breath hitched and he rewarded her responsiveness with a quick, filthy kiss as he guided her hand back down to the table top and dipped it into one of the lines before bringing it back up to his lips. 

The cocaine was bitter and familiar as it numbed his tongue. The blonde held out the straw and Killian took it without hesitation. 

He did two lines in quick succession and fell back into the chair. As he waited for the high to hit, his companions took turns with the straw, wiping the backs of their hands across their noses to wipe away any excess powder as they stood before him. 

Killian allowed them to pull him to his feet, four hands making quick work of his clothes as well as their own. One pushed him onto the bed and as a pair of lips closed around his cock, the coke high hit and he was flying, unsure if he was closer to heaven or hell. 

* * *

 

She was cried out after an hour. Exhausted. Depressingly sober. Alone. 

And mad as hell. 

Emma recognized a defensive move when she saw one: the lashing out. Granted, it was usually her move, but the perpetually walled off tend to recognize their own. 

Pacing in her living room, she weighed her options. Calling Killian back would be a waste of time if all he was going to do would be to drunkenly invite her to hop on his dick again. So she could either let it go or grab her keys, make the drive to his house and force him to look her in the eye while being an asshole that would probably still drunkenly invite her to hop on his dick. 

“Fuck!” 

The empty room echoed the epithet back to her and nothing else.

Cursing again, she headed to the bathroom and made quick work of wiping off the red lipstick and pulling her curls back into a stark ponytail. A quick change of clothes – the guys at Swan Bonds referred to the red leather jacket as Emma’s armor – and she was ready for a fight.

* * *

 

 Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma tried to be polite to the veritable mountain of a man standing outside the door of Killian’s bedroom. 

“Please let me in, Anton.” 

A look of something akin to pity, or maybe understanding, flashed on his face before Anton moved to the center of the double doors and crossed his arms. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Swan. No one goes in. Captain’s orders.” His voice dropped. “Besides, you might not like what you see in there.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Emma sighed, her face scrunching with frustration. What Killian did behind closed and heavily guarded doors was his own damn business and she suddenly felt foolish driving all this way with the hope that he would be waiting for her so they could work out whatever shit had hit the fan between them. Instead, she walked into a rager, picking her way through the drunk, glassy-eyed throngs on both floors until she spotted Anton. 

Clenching her fists, Emma squeezed her eyes closed and when she opened them, she put a hand on Anton’s arm and offered him a tight-lipped smile. 

“I understand you have a job to do. I shouldn’t…it’s not my place to –“ 

Cut off by a muffled scream coming from the bedroom, Emma’s eyes met Anton’s and they both stood silent, listening intently. Another scream came, followed by shouts and Anton moved his ass into gear, punching a code into the keypad and nodding to Emma when the lock disengaged. 

She burst inside the room to find two women standing by the bed freaking the fuck out. They were both naked, babbling and letting out shrieks as they looked at a prone, nude figure sprawled out on the bed. 

Killian was on his back convulsing, a white foam pouring out of his mouth. Emma catapulted onto the bed and turned his head to the side so he wouldn’t choke and grabbed the arm of the closest girl. 

“What did he take? HEY! Quit screaming and tell me what the fuck he took!” The girl ignored her as she and her friend gathered their things and high tailed it out of the room. Emma’s eyes swept around the room, taking in the residue on the table by the window and a small mound of white powder on the nightstand that looked like it had been much larger at some point.

 _Cocaine._  

She cradled Killian’s head as Anton called 911 to report an overdose. Bending down, she whispered in his ear as his body shook uncontrollably. 

“Stay with me, Killian. Stay with me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever, I'm so sorry. Thank you for sticking with this story and with me. xoxo

The tight squeeze on Killian’s arm hurt like hell, second only to the stabbing pain that went shooting through his skull as he tried to open his eyes. Slamming his lids shut in an effort to stop the agonizing throb, he took stock of his surroundings using other senses. 

Machines beeped as the kung fu grip on his biceps relaxed. The air smelled medicinal and the drone of daytime television came from off in the distance. 

_Hospital._

_Had he been in an accident?_

Ignoring the pain, he opened his eyes again and, as his pupils adjusted to the harsh lighting, he took stock. 

_No casts._

He flexed his toes and bent his knees, breathing out a sigh of relief when he could move them, the rasp of crappy industrial linens under his legs.

_Not paralyzed._  

A nurse bustled in, startling him and Killian choke-coughed, his throat raw. 

“What happened?” His voice was wrecked and gravelly, and it felt like he was trying to swallow around a rock. 

The nurse held up a finger and went to the phone on the wall. 

“Can you let Dr. Miller know the patient in room 204 is awake?” She hung up and turned, walking over to the bed and taking Killian’s wrist in her hand. “The doctor will be in shortly to go over things with you, Mr. Jones.” She avoided eye contact with him as she took his pulse, checked the last reading on the blood pressure machine and went to the computer to type in some numbers. 

Realizing she wasn’t going to give him any information, Killian leaned his aching head back onto his pillow and started wracking his brain. 

He remembered the crisis team standing by while his manager raked him over the coals for getting arrested. Killian had slouched in the corner, rum bottle in hand, as the suits devised a PR plan to pull their client’s ass out of the mess he’d put himself in. When they left, he’d made a few calls and by nightfall, a party was in full swing. 

_Emma._

Had he talked to her? Killian scrunched up his face trying hard to separate reality from the dozens of conversations he’d had in his head with her since that night on the boat. The night they’d kissed and touched, her blonde head in his lap as – 

No, wait. That hadn’t been on the boat. And that hadn’t been Emma. The hair was too brittle. The eyes all wrong. The sounds she made as he fucked her – _them_ , because holy shit there were two – were porn star fake.

_Oh, God._

A boisterous knock came and before Killian could croak out a “come in” the door swung open. A doctor he didn’t recognize was followed into the room by a man he knew all too well, and parts of his lost night came flooding back. 

 

* * *

 

Huddled in the waiting room, Emma clung to a paper cup of coffee that had initially almost burned her hands but had since cooled to an unpalatable temperature. The rim of the cup was unrolled and she had started to tear into it when Robin and Will came up after parting ways with a bald man who shook both of their hands and disappeared down a hallway. 

She stood up and threw her arms around both of them, the dire straits their friend was in drawing them closer than usual. They settled her down into her chair again, Robin taking the coffee and replacing it with a venti cup from Starbucks. Emma made an abbreviated “we’re not worthy” bow and took a sip, sighing in relief as the familiar mix of chocolate laced with cinnamon swirled on her tongue. 

“Any news?” Will leaned forward, elbows touching his knees, one shoulder jostling as one leg bounced in its regular tic. 

Emma swallowed harder than the mouthful of cocoa warranted, her eyes pricking with tears.

“It was an overdose. I went to his house to talk to him and found – him. He was seizing and throwing up. There was coke all over the damn room. I thought –“ she choked a little on the words – “he was going to die. He almost did.” Tears rolled down her face and Robin reached over to slide a comforting hand over hers. “The paramedic said the mix of drugs and alcohol taxed his heart and it stopped. They were able to bring him back, but I don’t know anything else.” 

Looking up in time to see Robin and Will exchange a loaded look, she took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and indelicately blew her nose. 

“What?” 

Will’s eyes dropped to the ground and Robin squeezed Emma’s hand to get her attention. 

“It wasn’t just an overdose, Emma. It was a relapse.” 

Mouth dropping open, she looked at Robin in shock. 

“He got into coke really early on when we were still on the road. There was a venue we played that was shady as hell and when the owner came up empty on cash, he offered to pay us in 8 balls. We made a pact to...unload them and then never do it again.” 

“You mean sell,” Emma interrupted. Being in bonds, she’d heard a thousand downplays and sob stories over the years and knew when there was shit through which to cut. 

This time it was Robin’s head that dropped and Will picked up where he left off. 

“Jones had some groupie with him that night. She tried to roll him when he passed out from the booze and she found the stash. When he woke up, she was doing lines off the bathroom sink.” Will stretched his legs out in front of him and draped his arms over the backs of the chairs on either side of him. “She taught him how to use and it just fucking snowballed from there.” 

“The truth is, Emma,” Robin interjected, “we didn’t come back home because we thought we were holding him back from the big time. We came back because we couldn’t go down the road he was on. Once he got a taste, Killian kept using. The higher up the food chain he went, the worse the habit got. It’s everywhere at that level.” 

“Told ourselves he’d fuck us right over if we stuck around. Or worse, drag us down the rabbit hole with him,” Will added. “It took a while for the addiction to really take hold and by the time it did, we were long gone. To hear him tell it, he got bored after his first tour. Was working in the studio and missing the rush of life on the road and the high from the crowds. It came to a head eventually. Almost OD’d then.” 

Will’s mouth was twisted, his eyes looking past Emma as if he were reliving the whole thing over again. 

“He went to rehab quietly and did ninety days. Been sober since. At least from the drugs. The rum worked its way back in, but it never quite took a hold of him like the rest of it.” 

She had to move, the timeline unrolling in her head. That one year he’d seemingly forgotten her birthday…Standing to pace, Emma gestured toward Robin. 

“And then what? I don’t get it. He seemed so bored with the whole lifestyle. Like he wanted to –“ She couldn’t bring herself to say, “settle down” out loud. It sounded naïve and, given the amount of secrets between them, Emma supposed it was. 

Despite her best efforts, “Maybe this is my fault” slipped out instead. 

Robin and Will both stood and she backed away from them, not ready or willing to hear platitudes, and she swore when she hit something solid.

Turning, Emma was face to face with the man who had come in with Will and Robin. He extended a hand toward her, eyes boring into hers. His voice was accented and calming when he introduced himself. 

“You must be Emma.” 

“This is Nemo. He’s Killian’s NA, or Narcanon, sponsor.” 

Overwhelmed by the thoughts racing through her head, she chortled as she shook his hand and said, “You don’t look like a fish.”

_Oh, come on, Emma. Like this is some weird-ass alternate universe where Disney characters are real people._  

Nemo smiled kindly at her. “I get that a lot.” 

Realizing he must have already seen Killian, she started bombarding him with questions. 

_Did you talk to him?  
_

_Is he okay?_

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, he gestured for her to sit and sank into the chair next to hers. He was older, but not elderly, and still he moved as if he wasn’t quite on solid ground. What had Killian called it as he laughed at her walking on the pier? Land legs? Regardless, Nemo had a very grounding presence and she folded her hands in her lap, waiting for him to speak. 

“I have spoken with Killian and his doctor. He’s out of the woods medically. They were able to counteract the side effects of the cocaine toxicity and alcohol on his heart. His blood pressure is no longer sky-high but they are going to continue to monitor him for arrhythmia. He placed a terrible burden on his heart and it will take time to mend.” 

Emma didn’t need to look to know Robin and Will’s bodies sagged in relief at the news just as hers did. 

“He’d like to speak with you, Emma, but only if you want to. If you prefer to take the news that he’s doing as well as can be expected and leave, Killian will understand.” 

Looking back at Robin and Will for guidance, they reacted almost comically to type.

Robin’s furrowed brow and slight nod was reassuring while conveying he understood the width and breath of both the invitation and the ripcord Killian had provided her. Will stopped leering at a pretty nurse when his friend poked him in the ribs and he shrugged at Emma, chewing a piece of gum so indelicately she was reminded of the cows she’d seen chaperoning Henry’s class trip to the dairy farm. 

“Uh, sure. Lead the way?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, she followed after Nemo. 

 

* * *

 

 She looked like shit. 

Beautiful as always. But worn out and drawn in on herself, like the walls that had come down between them were back and two stories higher. 

And, as Emma moved across the room and sat in the visitor’s chair a few feet from his bed, Killian knew that even though he was fuzzy on the details, it was his fault. 

Dr. Miller had given him the rundown of what had happened. He had been seizing and foaming at the mouth, turned onto his side to keep him from swallowing his own tongue or choking on his vomit. En route to the hospital, his heart stopped, the medic riding in the back of the ambulance shocking him back to life. 

They sat in a silence that was anything but companionable, her face a stony mask, and he tried to come up with the right thing to say. Shuffling through his mental Rolodex, its contents blurring together thanks to the previous night and all of the efforts made to reverse its effects, Killian had nothing, so he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. 

“You saved me.” 

_Oops._  

Cobra-fast she struck, launching out of the chair in a flash of red leather and lashing out at him so quickly it made him flinch. The electrodes attached to his newly shaved chest pulled at his skin and sent his tongue between his teeth with a hiss as he muttered, “Damn, that hurts.”

  
“Let’s get a few things straight, okay? Your friends,” – that came with a side order of- sarcastic air quotes – “screaming when you started convulsing? _That_ saved you. Anton keying in the security code for the door and calling 911? _That_ saved you. The medics who intubated you and pushed me aside when you coded, shocking your heart back to beating? _That_ saved you.” 

Leaning over him, her tone edged toward seething. “ _I_ got to kneel in your vomit until help arrived. I am _not_ your savior. You don’t even know me. And I clearly don’t know you.” Spine straightening, she turned on her heel and began walking to the door. 

“Don’t go,” he rasped. “Come back. Let me –“ 

Her laugh was short and almost cruel - a glimpse of a darker Swan. 

“Come back? For what? So you can play house once in a while? Or between overdoses? So you can use me? Use Henry.” 

Emma’s voice cracked. 

“A day on a boat is nothing compared to having actual responsibilities and having to put someone else first. He’s not there to be your little buddy when want him and to get tossed aside for drugs and parties and women when you get bored with real life. He’s mine. Mine to protect. He has no use for you like this,” she gestured toward him. “And neither do I.” 

 

* * *

 

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, Killian. Which makes me wonder what happened.” 

Nemo stood quietly at the window of the, as comforting a presence as he’d always been even with the air of formality he naturally carried, waiting for Killian to speak. 

“You gave me two good pieces of advice and I took neither.” He trailed off, the words he wanted to say bitter on his tongue, poisoned by his actions. 

“Set aside your distractions and find what’s missing in your life,” Nemo filled in. His eyes were kind but direct when he settled into the visitor’s chair Emma had been sitting in and steepled his fingers, eyes kind but direct as they looked at Killian. “And have you done that?” 

Had he? To some degree, he’d supposed. Giving up the cocaine but not the rum. Moving on with his life but always looking back to the people – person – he’d left behind. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I just distracted the distractions and never let what was missing get completely out of sight.” Killian pressed his head into the pillow, eyes pricking with the sting of tears. Nemo had seen him at his worst – and now, so had Emma – and hiding from either of them would serve no purpose but to keep him at rock bottom. 

He offered a Cliffs Notes version of what had happened with Emma since he returned to Boston, ending with a sweeping gesture at the hospital room and a stoic, “My past has caught up with me.” 

A low hum came from Nemo and Killian knew from experience and hours upon hours of talking with him that a truth bomb was about to drop. 

“Has it really caught up, Killian? Or was it running alongside you this whole time, waiting to see if you’d get a burst of speed and leave it behind or falter and let it get ahead of you?” 

A nurse came bustling in before he could answr, all pink cheeks and nervous hands as she checked his vitals and made some notes on his charts. Killian automatically winked at her and making some cheeky remarks as her fingers fluttered over the electrodes on his chest and asked for her number before she left. When she exited the room he cringed at how rote a response slipping into his public persona had become. He was laying in a fucking hospital bed after overdosing, not out on the town trolling to get laid. 

The duality of who he’d become was suddenly crushing and felt disingenuous. There were aspects of being on stage and all of its trappings that he loved; others were more of a love/hate. And under all of that, there was the man he was without any of it. Killian could barely remember what it was like to be that man, but he’d had a taste when he was with Emma. And with Henry. 

Suddenly embarrassed that Nemo had witnessed his little fuckboy moment, Killian shifted his weight and pushed a button on the railing of the bed. As it moved to help him sit up straighter, he looked at his sponsor and friend. 

“I don’t know if I’m the type to get a happy ending.” 

A good-natured chuckle accompanied Nemo’s answer. 

“You still could. When you’ve done the work and asked for forgiveness.” He stood and took a short step forward, hand on Killian’s shoulder. “Guilt can be corrosive to the soul. Whatever path you take, you must learn to forgive yourself. Whatever happened, it will always stay with you. As will your addiction. It will stand outside your door, asking to be let in.” 

Killian nodded, knowing Nemo spoke the truth. 

“And how do I keep from letting it back in again?” 

The squeeze on his shoulder was firm until Killian looked up. 

“It’s not the destination that matters, Killian. It’s what we learn on the way. The details are entirely up to you. But the best way I’ve found to not let it in is to want what’s standing beside you inside more than the escape waiting for you outside.”

 

* * *

 

Swan Bonds, LLC. had outgrown itself. Leaving Ashley and her considerable office managing skills to run the original location, Emma was balls-deep working on a second office, this one on prime real estate a block away from the police station.

Henry was all too happy to spend a his weekends at Violet’s, waving Emma off when she apologized for working too much as she dropped him off Friday evening. 

“It’s fine, Ma.” 

He was thinning out, his face a little more angular than it had been a year ago, and already taking bets on how old he’d be when he surpassed his mother in height. The pre-teen sass reared its ugly head more than Emma would have liked, but he still begrudgingly let her kiss his forehead as she left, cheeks reddening as Violet – whom Emma suspected Henry was beginning to think of as a little more than just a friend even if it was at a glacial pace – looked on. 

“See you Sunday afternoon, kid.” 

“For your birthday dinner.” Looking at her pointedly, he added, “A day late.” 

She saluted him on her way out, threw Violet a wave and hauled ass to her new storefront for a weekend of monitoring the delivery of furniture, computer wiring and rolling paint on the walls. Emma may have been doing well financially, but the loans for the new location were in their infancy and cutting costs was still important. 

 

* * *

 

Saturday had been a shitshow. The furniture company delivered the wrong stuff and she’d argued with the driver for forty minutes trying to convince him the four huge wooden executive desks wouldn’t fit in her rented space, much less through the damn door. Then the electrician had a family emergency and asked for the afternoon off. By the time he came back and finished his wiring and Emma had finally put down drop cloths and gotten to work on the painting, it was dark. 

The street was relatively quiet; no unsavory characters hung out down the street from the precinct when there were cops coming in and out of the building at all hours. So when there was a rap at the door at eight o’clock, it startled her enough to drop the roller she was holding, splattering her shoes.

“Ah, fuck!” 

Picking up a rag from the floor, she wiped what she could and did a hop-skip-and-jump sort of wiggle to the door to avoid stepping in any of the paint drops that had fallen on the plastic drop cloth. 

“Can I help you?” The man standing outside looked harried and offered no identification, but Emma could see a van from a florist shop parked illegally at the curb and her heart started to race. 

_Could it be?_  

“Emma Swan?” he asked brusquely, and before she could even open her mouth, he was shoving a slim box at her and walking away. 

Eyebrows raised, she put the box under one arm and pulled the door closed, locking it carefully. Finding a corner of the drop cloth that wasn’t already speckled, she sat and opened her package, simultaneously not knowing and knowing what exactly to expect. 

Two years. They hadn’t spoken in almost two years. The last words she’d said to Killian were in anger and hurt, and while she’d meant every single one of them, the weight of saying them had been hard to carry. On a few weaker occasions, she’d Googled him while wine-soaked just in case she’d find stories about him fucking his way through groupies and trashing hotel rooms. 

Nothing. 

He’d fallen out of the spotlight and there was nothing except speculative articles wondering when and where he’d surface. Emma didn’t think anybody writing the articles – and a few journalists had possessed the balls to call her company early on in his disappearing act to ask if she knew the whereabouts of Killian Jones - would have put money on a soon-to-be-open bail bonds office. She supposed she could have gotten a hold of Anton who had slipped her his number as she’d stormed out of the hospital, but she’d never brought herself to use it. 

The box held a single, perfect burgundy rose and an envelope, the note inside written on heavy cardstock Killian’s script. 

_Happy Birthday, Swan._

_Killian_

She sat back, a thousand thoughts running through her head. He’d kept tabs enough to know her business was expanding. And even though the sign wasn’t up yet, Killian knew the address. Emma supposed she should be irritated that he, at the very least, had done a little bit of digging to find her here, but the thought was lost as the envelope slipped off her lap, heavier than it should have been if it were empty. 

Emma put her hand out and tipped the envelope to allow whatever was inside to slide out into her palm 

It was an NA recovery chip. On one side it read, “A new way of living.” On the other was “24 months.”

 

* * *

 

Sweet fuck, he was nervous. More nervous than he’d been on a stage since he was a teenager and this one was significantly smaller than the stadiums he’d worked to fill. He had more scruff than usual, the purple cut out of his hair but nobody would have seen it anyway thanks to the beanie he had pulled low over his brow. The bar’s spotlight was hot, the stool small and rickety. It was a far cry from stardom, but to Killian, these days it felt like home. 

He hadn’t sung outside of a small studio in almost two years. The retreat from the public eye had been swift and necessary, the check-in to a six-month in-patient rehab just as swift and necessary. He had cried, yelled, screamed and group therapied himself into a new person. Or, as Nemo put it, a new version of the old Killian. The kid who had dreamed of stardom but had been happy just to have a guitar in his hands and a few dollars in his pocket. 

The record label didn’t know he was here, a minute away from performing a couple of songs from his new album in a dive with sticky floors and halfway decent acoustics. They would have been pissed, maybe even sued his ass, but Killian didn’t care. Performing again was his last goal and as he started to strum his guitar, he let the music carry him away from any thought of the woman across town opening an envelope that contained a piece of his heart. 

Leaning into the mic, he spoke.

“This one’s called ‘The Swan.’”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. xoxo

 

Emma slipped into the bar an hour before its two o’clock closing. Despite the lateness, it was packed; word of Killian Jones playing local haunts after a few years out of the spotlight had gotten around in the month since a single rose, a note and a sobriety chip had shown up at her office late at night. It hadn’t taken much detective work or any significant stretch of time on her part to figure out what he was doing and where. Two days after her birthday, Emma knew where to find him.

What had taken time was growing some balls. 

She didn’t know what to expect going into the bar. Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. She thought she knew what to expect; a shock of purple hair, eyeliner, some sass and more sex than she honestly knew what to do with but fuck, she’d still try. A brunette on each arm, a half-empty bottle of rum in whichever hand wasn’t wildly gesticulating as he held court at a VIP table – if they even had those in dive bars - surrounded by groupies. 

What Emma wasn’t prepared for was being almost unable to find Killian in the crowd because it wasn’t surrounding him. Her eyes raked over screaming bachelorette parties, dudebros playing darts while loudly pronouncing the superiority of their own home-brewed IPA over the bar’s draft beer, and a few barflies ignoring it all on their stools. One barfly, when he raked his beanie off and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly transformed into the Killian Jones she’d known in high school and her breath caught. 

The purple hair was gone and so was the eyeliner. Instead of flashy leather and copious amounts of man titty on display, he was wearing a plaid shirt with a depressingly modest amount of chest hair peeking out of a V-neck tee shirt she was sure she’d seen more than a decade before. Definitely more starving artist than world-renowned, multi-millionaire rock star and she briefly wondered if his tailspin back into drugs had taken his wealth and privilege with it. 

Rooted in place – her newly acquired balls suddenly shrinking a bit at the sight of him in the flesh – Emma watched him almost melt into the background of the atmosphere, and when a drunk, shrieking bride-to-be jostled her and stroked Emma’s hair while she slurred out an apology, she saw her opening. 

“Hey, do you know who that is?” 

The girl’s eyes raked ten feet past where Emma was pointing before snapping back. Her eyes glazed just a little bit – a byproduct of lust instead of two-for-one Jell-O shots – and, even if she hadn’t answered in the affirmative verbally, Emma knew the tipsy chick still petting her knew exactly who he was.

“That’s Killian Jones. He used to be a big shot. My friends and I come here all of the time to see him play. We even tried to pick him up before I…ya know.” She held up the hand sporting an engagement ring. “We just wanted to see if the rumors were true about…” She trailed off again, this time holding both hands up about nine inches apart with an attempt at a conspiratorial wink that failed so completely Emma almost laughed as the girl blinked so hard she could barely get her heavily false-lashed eyes back open. 

“All he did was thank us for coming, take out a big-ass roll of cash and ask us what we were drinking. See, like that.” She gestured in his general direction and Emma turned. 

The girls were stunning; exactly the type she knew once upon a time he’d be down to fuck. They were all legs and tits and hands on his thighs as they caged him in. Emma watched with a weird mix of bemusement and trepidation from across the room to see if the drunk girl currently trying to use Emma’s hand to spin herself around on the edge of the dance floor had it right and Killian really was turning down offers of sex from the bold and the ballsy, or if she’d just been unlucky in lust. 

Either way, the prophesy her new BFF who had thankfully returned to her friends came true as Killian suavely picked up the hands on his thighs in his own, kissed the back of them, and gestured to the bartender who came over in a flash took a bill Killian produced and, before Emma could blink, the ladies were turning away from the bar with pink cosmopolitans compliments of Killian Jones. 

Emma wondered for split second if maybe he hadn’t slipped them a number or had a wingman somewhere, but as she craned her neck looking for Anton’s hulking figure, the girls came within the kind of earshot that exists in all bars, complaining loudly from twenty feet away that they’d gotten all dressed up – panties apparently excluded– and all they’d scored from Killian Jones was a couple of drinks. 

One of the girls all but barreled into her, looking her up and down with a sneer at her boots and leather jacket before moving on. It was petty as hell but Emma giggled to herself. She may have passed on dressing to impress and was wearing enough underwear for all three of them thanks to being behind on doing laundry and a pair of Hanes her Ways that would have made a granny green with envy, but at least she’d scored an orgasm from him. 

That gave her a little boost and she turned back toward the bar with a smirk on her face; one that quickly fell when she realized Killian was looking directly at her.

 

* * *

 

 She came.

 _She came, she came, she came._  

Killian scrunched his beanie in his hands, suddenly dry-mouthed and nervous at the sight of Emma. He’d sent the card and the sobriety chip a month before and with each passing day she didn’t show, he figured she had rejected the apology, olive branch, invitation or whatever the fuck it was, and Killian supposed in the end it was really all three. He’d spent some extra time with Nemo and going to meetings to work through that rejection without letting it become a tailspin. 

That was his life now. Time. Patience. Accountability. A small handful of true friends who didn’t use or enable him. Meetings. Music. 

And, he realized, as he stared at her from across the crowded room, that was enough. That even if she turned and walked away, he’d be okay. 

The realization gave him the courage to smile and slide off his barstool to make a beeline for her. When Emma saw him coming her way, she smiled back, the satisfied smirk she’d had on her face when she caught his eye giving way to something more cautious but not unwelcoming. The path toward her seemed to take forever as regulars stopped him to shake hands or pull him into a bro hug. Killian was certain she’d get sick of waiting and leave, and he ignored the last few hands pulling on him as he walked up to her. 

“I’m glad you made it,” he half-shouted from a respectable distance, hands itching to pull her to him but not wanting to cross that line without provocation. 

Emma’s eyes squinted as she examined him, her critical look making him blush a little, especially when her eyes dropped to where his hands were clasping his belt in an extra measure to keep them to himself. Still, he couldn’t resist messing with her a little and he shifted his hips slightly, biting the inside of his cheek when her eyes dropped even more and tracked the bulge just below his hands. 

 _You can take the cheeky showman outta the rock arena…_

Killian’s mirth dried up when Emma’s gaze rose again and her eyes locked onto his. 

“Likewise,” she said drily and Killian swallowed hard at her tone. 

“I deserve that,” he said, shifting again but this time with a sheepishness he felt to his core. 

“Yep,” Emma agreed. She didn’t look agitated or particularly nervous and it unsettled Killian until she spoke again, her tone 100% the Emma he’d been teased mercilessly by since he was a teenager. 

“So who does a girl have to be unceremoniously turned down by to get a drink around here?” 

Killian laughed loudly.

“You saw that.” 

Emma flipped her ponytail around and straightened her jacket, jutting her chin toward him with a gleam in her eye. 

“’Everybody saw that.” 

Unbothered by it, Killian shrugged. She’d seen him at his fucking worst and close to death. The entire world could watch him turn down random pussy and as long as Emma Swan was still willing to be in the same room as he was, he didn’t give a damn. 

Bending at the waist with a shit-eating grin, Killian bowed and gestured toward the bar with a flourish, following behind her when she started moving in her no-nonsense way. The crowd parted for her because her carriage demanded it and he had to hustle to keep up with her strides. His eyes were glued to the backside of her tight jeans because he was human and her ass was still stellar. But his ogling cost him his reflexes, and Killian slammed right into Emma when she stopped in front of him abruptly. 

They were close, not quite hip-to-hip, but Killian’s breath caught anyway. Her hand was on his chest, her index finger just touching the exposed skin above the only fastened button on his henley. The look on her face was tortured and it broke Killian out of his ass watching/close proximity spell. 

“What is it, Swan?” He bent his head down to force her to look him in the eye and he was horrified to see hers were shiny. Killian knew from experience that Emma didn’t cry easily and his heart ached to think that he’d been back in her life for five fucking minutes and she was already near tears. 

“I shouldn’t…I didn’t think. You – you’re sober and I shouldn’t have joked about you buying me a drink.” 

“No.” Killian shook his head. “No, Swan. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He held a hand up when she protested. “ _I_ am an alcoholic. You, I’m presuming, are not?” He waited with his tongue poked into his cheek until she shook her head. “So. You are perfectly at liberty to have a drink. One I would be honored to buy for you. I, however, am going to –“ he looked at his watch – “have a quick club soda and get my ass back on that stage for my last set.” 

Breaking his self-imposed no-contact order, Killian slung an arm around Emma’s shoulders and walked her the rest of the way to the bar, hip checking her lightly when she asked the bartender what the soup of the day was. 

“Pink cosmos” was the rib that came back at Killian’s expense, and he snorted into his refreshed soda glass as Emma pointed to it as he took a sip and gave the bartender a thumbs up, signaling she’d have one, too. 

“Emma. You don’t have to do that,” he protested. 

“Killian,” she said in the same serious tenor before draining the glass as he watched. She put it on the bar with a loud clunk and made a show of wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “We both know I don’t do a fucking thing I don’t want to do.” 

A high-pitched whistle came from the DJ booth as the song pounding the walls of the room wound down and Killian, emboldened by her admission that she wouldn’t be there if she didn’t want to be, quickly and chastely bussed her cheek, his heart racing with a natural high. 

“Gotta go sing for my supper.”

 

* * *

 

Killian Jones was still a showman. 

The downgrade of his status from arena filler to Boston bar favorite – a status she had yet to discern was voluntary or not – hadn’t diminished his talent, if anything the smaller setting amplified it. 

She wasn’t around for the first or second set, but Killian’s last was a mix of new songs and some of his old stuff, with only one hiccup when he quickly motioned to his band to cut off a song they’d started. At first, Emma thought the crowd was saying her name, but decided they were protesting with a collective “wahhh” instead. Killian playfully admonishing his musicians for fucking up before admitting with a raised eyebrow into the microphone that he’d changed the set list at the last minute and forgot to tell them. 

To make it up to the crowd, he launched into a full-on rock version of Britney Spears’s “Toxic” and Emma could have sworn he threw in some of the choreography as he moved around the stage with his guitar. Killian looked happy and healthy and more in his element than she’d seen him since he’d been back in Boston.

And still sexy as hell, even without the leather pants and the guyliner. 

The women in the audience were hooting and hollering, a few reaching out to touch his legs and, Emma suspected, even higher up if he’d let them. But Killian would give them a wink and a smile or, during a particularly raucous chorus, a little hip thrust and seamlessly move beyond their reach. 

By the time the set was almost done, Emma was reintroduced to the persona that had risen to the top, selling out tours and making millions. But as Killian dragged a stool to the center of the stage and took a long drink from a water bottle, he transformed once more into…whatever the hell he was to her. Maybe just one of her oldest friends. Maybe more. She straightened her spine and pushed the thought out of her head, focusing instead on his voice when Killian started to speak. 

“This is one of my favorites for one of my favorites.” The wink he sent her so quick she almost missed it, but she didn’t miss the raised eyebrow and the rise of his cheekbones before he looked down, and she felt a twinge of hopeful anticipation even though she didn’t recognize the music as he started to play. 

It was a beautiful song. Angsty. A mix of hard and soft. A cocktail of loss, love, anger, hope, sorrow and new beginnings. 

Whatever she and Killian were, it felt like them set to music. 

_Am I too far gone, did you give up,_

_Let’s burn it all, baby, and rise above._  

That vision of destroying something to ash so a phoenix could rise is what made Emma throw caution to the wind half an hour later in the parking lot. She all but barreled into Killian when they reached her car, his bone-deep chivalry not letting her walk fifty whole feet alone, and threw her arms around him. The noise he made when his back collided with the driver’s side door was cut off by her mouth fusing to his, and Emma gave him no time to recover. 

With barely a pause, he kissed her back and fuck, she was reminded how well he could kiss. He was aggressive and handsy, fingers in her hair or on her face, turning her head this way and that as they both took their fill. Killian tasted like sex and sin, somehow simultaneously familiar and brand new. She realized the difference was the absence of rum, and Emma kissed him harder as she realized she was tasting the real Killian again. 

He broke away first and Emma wondered if he regretted it. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. She cleared her throat but before she could say anything, he leaned back in and his tongue flicked out, brushing her upper lip as he shushed her, his nose sliding against her until his forehead was touching hers. They swayed together for a moment, both regrouping and trying to catch their breath.

Emma blushed when she realized both of her hands were glued to Killian’s ass and she took a step back, slipping her hands into her back pockets and trying to act nonchalant, willing herself to not stare at his mouth. Or, God forbid, let her eyes drop to his crotch. 

“I’m sorry.” 

That brought her gaze back up as Emma’s mind reeled. She’d read him wrong. 

“I’m…fuck, I shouldn’t have…you don’t want…” 

Killian stepped back into her orbit, sliding a hand through her hair and cupping the back of her head. This kiss was soft and sweet with the briefest brush of his tongue against hers before he drew back. 

“I’m not apologizing for the kiss. That was a sorry piled high with a fuckton of regret, but not for kissing you. Or anything else. Ever.” His eyebrows waggled and Emma took a deep breath in lieu of continuing to babble. 

Warm hands enveloped her fingers and warm words washed over her heart. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry that I hurt Henry. I brought you into a life that was lived on the edge with a downward spiral only a few steps away and I shouldn’t have done that. I was tired. And lonely. And had everything that didn’t matter and nothing that did. I’m sorry I used you to feel normal. And I’m sorry you had to see me –“ Killian’s voice cracked as he trailed off, his eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry you were ever put into the position of having to save me. But I’m grateful you did.” 

A tear slid down his cheek and he looked up at the sky, blinking back tears before looking back down at her.

“I’m an alcoholic. And an addict. I know you saved me because you’re a good person. And I know I can’t make what I did to you or what you went through go away or make it right because I was so very, very wrong.” 

Emma watched their hands as he drew them up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Instead of it being dismissive like she’d witnessed at the bar earlier, it felt…reverent. 

“But I’d like to make it new.” 

The candor and directness with which he spoke was overwhelming. Emma had known there would be a talk. Probably a lot of talks and dealing with that was one of the reasons it had taken her so long to sack up and come to see him. She didn’t know that he’d lay it all out there less than two hours after they’d reconnected, not that she should have been surprised, and wasn’t sure how to unpack everything he’d just said. 

So Emma pulled a classic and after Killian put his emotions on the table, she followed up with a serving of snark. 

“Did you rehearse that?” 

Taking her cue, Killian dropped her hands and leaned casually against her car, crossing his arms and ankles after quickly wiping his eyes. 

“In the bathroom mirror using my shampoo bottle as a microphone.” 

The image was enough to make Emma ugly snort and she gave a half-cough to cover the indelicate sound. Killian looked amused and if her changing of the subject bothered him, he didn’t show it. Realizing they could stand out in a bar parking lot all night, and getting the feeling that if it’s what she wanted he would, Emma made a show of looking at her wrist, cringing when she realized she wasn’t wearing a watch. 

 _Smooth._

“It’s half past get the fuck outta here, Swan.” Killian pushed himself off of her car hips-first and sauntered a few steps past her to give Emma room to open the door before turning around. 

She stuck one foot in the car but instead of sitting down in the seat, she hooked an elbow over the top of the door. 

“I don’t know what to say to you.” 

 _Very smooth._

“I understand.” 

Emma stared at him and blinked, realizing that he did, in fact, understand.

 “I have a lot to atone for, Emma. So I have a lot to say if you’ll hear it. But you? You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Not a goddamned thing. So I’m okay with you not knowing what to say as long as you know that when you’re ready, you can say anything.” 

As his finger came up to scratch behind his ear and Emma realized somewhat endearingly there was no twelve-step program strong enough to get rid of Killian’s nervous tics. She waited for whatever he was going to throw at her next. 

“When I said new I didn’t mean…” Killian gestured to the space between them. “That. The kissing. Or whatever.” 

“And by ‘whatever,’ you mean sex,” Emma interrupted, getting a punch of glee when the tips of his ears turned red. If she was going to be awkward and uncomfortable, she was taking him down with her. 

“Uh, yeah. Sex. Or whatever.” He muttered the last part and, realizing he was still doing the scratching thing, shoved his hands into his pockets and seemed to find some bravado inside them. 

Killian cleared his throat. “I am not in the position to ask you for anything. But if – and only IF – you’re willing to do new –“ he rolled his eyes when she giggled at the weak innuendo – “it can be whatever you want. Friends. Acquaintances. More. Less. Whatever you want. Whenever you’re ready. And Emma?” 

Killian paused, his throat working around a labored swallow. 

“Yeah?” 

“If it’s nothing, I’ll do that, too.” 

Hopping backwards on one foot as she brought the other one out of her car and down onto the ground, she was lost for fucking words. Again. It didn’t help that Jones seemed to own the monopoly on them. AND had rehearsed that shit like a twelve-year-old practicing their Oscar speech. But Emma had always been more about actions than words anyway. 

She took the few steps forward until she was standing squarely in front of Killian and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. The goodbye kiss was it was more hesitant than their groping make out session a few minutes earlier would have suggested, but it somehow soothed Emma’s soul. 

“Just…be patient,” she said with a soft smile before moving back toward her car. As she dropped into the seat, she heard Killian release his held breath and say something before she closed the door. 

“I have all the time in the world.” 

He walked away toward the far corner of the parking lot and Emma pulled out her phone. Bringing up iTunes, she quickly typed in the search bar and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as her download started, waving to Killian as he drove past her in a gunmetal gray muscle car that looked decidedly rockstar. 

Firing up the engine, she made sure her phone’s Bluetooth was connected to the car, hit a few buttons to pull up her newly acquired song and cranked the volume button on the radio. 

The clang of a guitar startled her, the music more twangy than Killian had played it, but as she put the car in gear and began to drive, she got caught up in the words just like she had when he sang them. 

_Let’s burn it all, baby, and rise above._


End file.
